


Cabin Pressure Ficlets

by Jay_eagle



Series: Fandot Creativity Night Fics [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, Ficlet, M/M, MJN Air Is A Family, Smut, eac2 fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:15:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 82
Words: 35,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3262976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_eagle/pseuds/Jay_eagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of assorted Cabin Pressure ficlets, cross-posted from my Tumblr (jay-eagle.tumblr.com).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> Any triggers or 'explicit' ratings marked as they apply at the beginnings of each chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most paramountly brilliant tracionn was supremely kind enough to commission the amazingly talented jessicamarianaart to provide some fanart for this ficlet - which you can find on Jessica's blog here: http://jessicamarianaart.tumblr.com/post/110980289673

Douglas has a big binder in which he keeps scads and scads of handwritten recipes, all of which he’s copied out and kept down the years. Occasionally Martin sees him reading directions from the thick file when he cooks, but he doesn’t like to pry as Douglas always puts it neatly back on the shelf when he’s done. Martin restrains his mild curiosity and merely compliments Douglas on all the amazing meals he turns out, so often from the folder’s inspiration - judging by how much his FO consults it, at least.

Except that one day, after they’ve been living together a long time, Douglas has to go out in a hurry and leaves his recipe binder open, so Martin starts to flick through. Some of the paper is almost disintegrating with age, yellowed and crisp to the touch; other sheets have miscellaneous smudges of sauce from meals long-since cooked and consumed. Douglas’ writing evolves throughout, becoming more flowing and confident, occasional crossings-out and notations in the margin revealing the refinements brought about by repeated experimentation with the methods and ingredients described.

It’s only when Martin gets about a quarter of the way from the end that he realises that the pages look fresher, newer. And then he sees that Douglas has copied out all of the dishes that Martin has been making for him when it’s his captain’s turn to cook - practically everything is there, all meticulously recorded. The knowledge that Douglas accords Martin’s culinary efforts this much love and importance is nearly overwhelming, and all he can do is gently put the (now even more precious) binder back on the shelf, and tie on an apron.

When Douglas comes home again, the table is groaning with food - all steaming and newly cooked - and Martin hastens to hug him with a sheepish, adoring smile.

 


	2. Rain

One day Martin stomps home in a terrible mood from one of his van jobs, drenched right through to his boxers because the customer kept him waiting in the rain. He’s surprised to be met in the hall by Douglas holding a hand towel. ‘Douglas, what -?’ he begins, but Douglas just smiles, reaching to towel his mop of auburn curls so they frizz out in all directions. In spite of himself, Martin feels a little spark of warmth inside as Douglas tugs him by the hand into their bedroom and starts peeling off his sopping clothing item by item; ordinarily Martin would be leaping at him but today he’s. Just. So. Bone-deep. Tired. Reluctantly, he catches Douglas’ hands tugging at his jeans, intending to convey that all he’s fit for is to tumble wearily into bed, but Douglas shakes his head.

'Don't worry - that's not what I'm after,' he chuckles, succeeding in separating Martin from his trousers and underwear in one fluid movement. Martin is perplexed, but then Douglas shoos him towards their en-suite, the captain's exhaustion causing him to stumble over his feet as he walks the few paces to the bathroom.

As Douglas swings the door gently open, a wonderful rush of hot, lavender-scented steam curls out, and Martin sees the bubbly bath that his FO has got ready for him. He blinks in disbelief, turning to stammer his thanks, but Douglas simply pecks him on the cheek with another of the dazzling smiles that are always guaranteed to make Martin lose the feeling in his knees. ‘Go on,’ says Douglas. ‘You’ve earned it.’ He pushes Martin towards the foamy water. ‘And when you’re done - there’s lamb tajine on the stove for us.’

Martin blinks. ‘My favourite?’

Douglas’ expression does something complicated that melts Martin’s icy insides. ‘For MY favourite,’ he purrs, running his gaze over Martin from head to toe, leaving the captain shivering with appreciation and a sudden pulse of WANT.

He isn’t cold anymore.


	3. Camel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of the Fandot Creativity night - for the prompt "Come on... nobody has to know."

“Come on… nobody has to know, Douglas.” Martin grinned at seeing his First Officer’s discomfiture.

 

“As if you won’t whip your cameraphone out as soon as I’m on board.” Douglas eyed the creature in front of him with deep suspicion.

 

“It’s a _camel_ , Douglas. I don’t think ‘on board’ is the correct terminology, do you?” Martin ignored Douglas’ harrumph. “Besides, we’ve missed the last crew bus now. It’s camel ride, or sleep on GERTI.”

 

“And whose fault was that?” Douglas wheeled round. “Just because you thought there was a problem with the paperwork.”

 

Martin’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not having a repeat of that safety infringement penalty from Douz.”

 

“We’re not _in_ Douz!”

 

Martin sighed. “No, we’re in Kebili.”

 

“And they were perfectly laid-back, last time! As if they were going to care about a minor discrepancy in the cargo manifest.”

 

“You’re stalling, Douglas. Are we riding the camels to the hotel, or not?” The camels' owner had begun to tap his toe on the sandy ground, raising a small plume of dust that made Martin sneeze.

 

“Oh, _fine_.” Douglas’ shoulders slumped. “Of all the undignified…” He walked to his camel’s side, and looked upwards as if expecting to find a ladder. Martin just about avoided snorting with laughter. “How do I get up, then?”

 

“You let the camel come to you, of course.” Martin made the slurping noise he’d heard the guides use on that long-ago family holiday to Egypt, praying that Tunisian camels ‘spoke’ the same commands. His camel looked round at him languorously, fluttered its eyelashes, then sank to its knees. He clambered on, then turned to grin at Douglas. “See? Nothing to it.”

 

“Hmm.” Douglas’ guide slurped in his turn, and Douglas’ mount sat down as well for him to scramble up. Martin had never seen anyone look quite so thunderous whilst trying to get comfy on a hump, and he stifled a roar of laughter. “I still think we could have walked.” Their guide was climbing on to his own camel, now.

 

“We can’t start walking _six miles_ through the Sahara, Douglas. That’s how you end up on the front page of the papers. Lost.”

 

Douglas raised his hands to begin gesturing his dissent, but failed to notice that his camel, once released by the guide, had got bored of sitting still. Martin saw what was going to happen a millisecond before it did. “Douglas – look –“

 

But it was too late. Douglas’ camel lurched on to its back legs, turning its back into an instant ski slope. With a cry of alarm, Douglas tumbled head over heels and landed up sprawled in the dust, a look of utter indignation on his face. Martin couldn’t help himself – he went off into peals of hysterical laughter, and groped for his phone to capture the FO’s demise.

 

“Don’t you dare,” protested Douglas, and unthinkingly grabbed at his camel’s neck to pull himself up. The camel grunted in rude shock, and bent downwards. “What are _you_ looking at?” Douglas growled – just as the animal blew a sharp ‘ _ffft_ ’ of spit straight into his face.

 

 _Click_. Martin had got his picture. And leverage for every cheese tray from now until the last syllable of recorded time.


	4. Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Fandot Creativity night - the prompt was "Dragons and/or cookies".

When Douglas arrived at the portacabin (late, as usual) he was a little startled to find that it was only Arthur in the office. “Morning, Arthur,” he called, hanging up his winter coat.

 

“’Lo, Douglas.”

 

Douglas paused for a moment. Arthur sounded awfully… subdued. He turned, regarding the steward a little worriedly. “Is everything alright? Where are Martin and Carolyn?”

 

Arthur blinked, then gestured towards the plane.  “They’re out at GERTI. Something to do with the cargo.”

 

“I see.” Douglas eyed him, then crossed to sit at his desk. Arthur was on Martin’s laptop, staring very hard at the screen. The steward’s expression was beyond glum. Douglas paused, then pursed his lips. “Arthur? Are you OK?”

 

“Mmm?” Arthur looked up, barely seeming to absorb Douglas’ question. “Am I…? Oh. Oh yes, fine.” The words were belied by a heavy sigh.

 

Douglas frowned. “You don’t _seem_ fine.” He tugged his chair over to Arthur’s. “What’s up, old thing?”

 

“I’m young.” Arthur wasn’t trying to be insulting, Douglas knew. He just hadn’t understood.

 

“Young thing, then.” Douglas patted him kindly on the knee. “You’ve lost all your bounce.”

 

Arthur’s brow wrinkled and he seemed to consider for a moment before answering. “It’s the dragon.”

 

“The dragon?” Douglas was completely confused.

 

“They’re taking the dragon away.” Arthur’s blue eyes met his, brimming with unhappiness, but Douglas couldn’t for the life of him make out what he meant.

 

“What dragon?” He wracked his brains. “Is it in a computer game?” He’d seen Emily playing something once – Minecraft, was it? There had been dragons in that.

 

“No!” Arthur’s voice was bordering on indignant. “The _big_ dragon, Douglas. The one in the Natural History Museum.”

 

“The one in the…” Douglas hesitated for a second, and then it all fell into place. He _just_ managed not to burst out laughing, realizing how much this apparently meant to his friend. “Arthur, have you been reading the news?”

 

Arthur nodded, and twisted the screen so Douglas could see it. It was the BBC News site, and the headline read ‘Museum’s Dippy dinosaur makes way for blue whale’. “See?” Arthur said, his mouth turning down at the edges. “No more dragon.”

 

“Oh.” Douglas wondered how to go about untangling this. “Well, first of all, it’s not a _dragon_ , Arthur, it’s a dinosaur.”

 

“Dinosaur, dragon,” Arthur said, in much the same way that others would say ‘potato, potah-to’.

 

Douglas ignored him and carried on. “And secondly, they’re not getting rid of the diplodocus,” he said, trying to sound as reassuring as he could. “They’re just moving him. Look here –“ he tried to find the quote he’d heard on the drive in on the _Today_ programme. “Here we are. It says ‘There is also the possibility that Dippy could go on tour as well, to bolster the exhibition spaces at regional museums in the UK’.”

 

“On tour?” Arthur turned away from the screen.

 

“Yes,” Douglas nodded.

 

“You mean… he could come here?”

 

“Yes,” Douglas agreed, praying that Fitton Museum had a space big enough.

 

“But – but –“ Arthur’s mood had completely reversed course. “That’s brilliant!”

 

Douglas grinned. “Yes.” He stood up and felt around in his jacket pockets. “Here. To help you stay cheered up.”

 

Arthur took the proffered biscuit, a remnant of Emily’s visit at the weekend. “I love cookies!”

 

Douglas snickered a laugh as he headed to find Martin. “I know.”


	5. Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Fandot Creativity night - the prompt was "I see what you did there."

“Snoopadoop! Snoopadoop, get _back_ here now!” Martin huffed after the small brown blur as the dog shot off into the distance, racing through the trees. An insane part of his brain considered shouting “I am a _CAPTAIN_!” after her, but he managed to dismiss the words as lunacy before they left his mouth.

 

He burst into the park, the treeline left behind him, and cast his gaze around for the beige ball of fur. “Never, never again,” he muttered angrily to himself. “Dog-sitting for Arthur? I must be mad.” He put his hands on his hips. “SNOOPADOOP!” he bellowed.

 

At the sound of a happy bark to his rear, he spun round. “ _There_ you are –“ he began, but his eyes widened. Prancing up behind him were not one, but two fluffy cockerpoos, both light brown, both panting enthusiastically. He frowned. “I see what you did there, pooch. Found yourself a friend, did you?” He bent down to pat them both.

 

The two dogs sat in unison, tongues lolling as though they were silently laughing at him. “Enough mucking about.” Martin straightened up. “Hometime. Come on, Snoopadoop.” He turned to walk away, before realizing both dogs were following him. “Stay – whoever you are,” he commanded, feeling more and more foolish. “Snoopadoop, COME.”

 

Both dogs followed him _again_. Martin’s eyes widened as he realized his dilemma.

 

“Oh no,” he groaned. “Which one’s which?”


	6. Suspicion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Fandot Creativity night - the prompt was "Banjo and balloons".

Martin had a strange sense that MJN Air was lately (more than usually) off its rocker. For days now, he had found conversation dying away as he entered the portacabin, both Arthur and Carolyn jerking round with oddly guilty faces while Douglas looked as smooth and innocent as only an experienced wheeler-dealer could. Of course, conversation stopping dead in its tracks when he entered a room wasn’t _new_ to him; he’d had seven years of secondary school, after all.

 

At first, he thought it must be resentment at the new hold-organisation policy he’d drawn up, but after a couple of days dismissed that theory; Douglas and Carolyn had never held back from telling him exactly what they thought of his procedures before. And Douglas seemed to be making an awful lot of secretive phonecalls – Martin had caught the end of one as Douglas rang off in the pilots’ lounge in Berlin, something about a _banjo_ delivery – was his FO smuggling again? Surely not. And if he were, there was no way Carolyn would get involved.

 

In the end, he cornered Arthur at the back of GERTI’s cabin after their flight back from Madrid one evening. “What’s going on?” he challenged, making the most of his other two colleagues being out of earshot. Any final doubts he may have had about whether something was afoot vanished as Arthur turned purple and his eyes darted sideways, looking as guilty as only the steward could.

 

“Nothing! I don’t know what you mean!”

 

“Nonsense. I know something’s up, and I want to know _now_ –“

 

“Martin!” Douglas had reappeared behind them.

 

Martin span round. “What?”

 

“Come and take a look at this flight plan, would you? I’ve written it for tomorrow.”

 

Martin caught a quick glance passing between Douglas and Arthur, but he ignored it in his surprise that Douglas had actually done paperwork. “ _You’ve_ written a flight plan?” He strode over. “Wait a second! We don’t have a flight tomorrow!”

 

“You do now.” Carolyn poked her head out of the cockpit. “Be here at 7pm.”

 

“It’s a night flight?” Martin was bewildered.

 

“Yes.” Carolyn’s reply was terse, and she retreated back into the flight deck. Martin stared at Douglas, but only got a shrug in return.

 

* * *

The next night, Martin arrived at the office as he’d been instructed, five minutes early as usual. His steps faltered as he approached the door – there seemed to be an awful lot of hushed giggles and whispering going on… And then Arthur burst through the outer door, his face just as puce as the day before. At the sight of Martin, he gave a dismayed squeak and darted back inside. The noise almost instantly cut off. Martin gaped and hesitated for a moment, but then felt indignant. _If this is some kind of practical joke_ … As he swung the door open, he looked warily up in case of a well-balanced bucket of water –

 

But then a wave of noise burst over him as people leapt out from every corner of the portacabin. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

 

Martin’s jaw fell open. It looked as if the whole airfield staff had turned out – for _him?_  He didn't ever remember even _mentioning_ his birth date. Martin hadn’t recovered from his shock as he took in Arthur, still purple in the face as he went back to blowing up another balloon to add to the not inconsiderable supply scattered around the office. Carolyn was smiling – good grief, he’d never seen his boss look so genuinely warm. And Douglas –

 

As the captain's eyes found him, Douglas struck up on the banjo he was balancing across his lap. The familiar tune of _Happy Birthday To You_ was taken up by everyone, and Martin knew he was as scarlet as his hair. All he could think to say, as the song died into expectant silence was – “ _You_ can play the banjo?!”

 

Douglas grinned. “But of course.” He stood up. “Happy birthday, Captain Crieff.”

 

Martin felt as light and airy as all of Arthur’s brilliant balloons.


	7. Picnic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated E - be warned, smut ahead.

Sometimes, to make Douglas smile, Martin surprises him on a rainy summer’s day by preparing the two of them an indoor picnic for lunch. Douglas’ house has a small conservatory, so Martin spreads a rug on the tiled floor there and they have baguette warm from the oven with salami and brie and sweetly-ripe cherry tomatoes that burst with flavour; and if some of the crumbs get ground into the blanket because Douglas knocks his plate over by leaning to kiss his captain slowly and deeply over the hamper… well, neither of them really minds.

Once Douglas draws back from their kiss, Martin shoves the hamper and plates aside without a second thought and lies back onto the rug, pulling Douglas down after him so the FO’s hands are pressed tight to Martin’s waist and shoulder, their chests flush against each other as Martin squirms with pleasure under Douglas’ increasingly passionate kisses. Douglas’ hands wander, of course, and before Martin really realises what’s happening then Douglas has drawn the captain free of his jeans and is stroking his cock just how he knows Martin likes it. Martin’s hips jerk helplessly and he tries to reach for Douglas to reciprocate, but Douglas just whispers ‘no, let me do this,’ as he mouths and sucks deliciously at his captain’s neck. 

As Martin approaches the precipice, Douglas seems to realise that Martin would prefer not to make a mess; so he kisses his way down the captain’s T-shirt and in one smooth movement takes him deep into the wet heat of his mouth. Martin comes hard almost instantly, watching Douglas swallow convulsively so as not to spill a drop. 

When he’s done, his arms and legs like limp noodles, Martin’s eyes drift shut; he pulls Douglas up towards him and tastes himself on Douglas’ tongue, feels the quiver of excitement running through his lover as a tense counterpoint to his own bonelessness. He rolls Douglas over, rocks his thigh into Douglas’ groin, allowing the FO to buck against him, feeling his rasping gasping rattle through them both.

The rug is rucked uncomfortably between them and Martin thinks he might have rolled over the salami - but he doesn’t care in the slightest as he reaches for Douglas’ arse and clutches them tight together. Douglas’ eyes screw shut and his back arches in a shudder of bliss as he groans ‘I’m coming - fuck -’ into the crown of Martin’s head. 

When the last stuttering convulsion has faded, Douglas sighs, and behind Martin he shoves away the dropped bread and cutlery so it no longer rests on the ruffled blanket. Humming with contentment, Douglas wraps the rug around them both so they form an odd tartan sausage of tangled limbs on the ground, lazily kissing and caressing until the chill of the floor tiles chases them upright at last and towards a long, hot shower to clean up.


	8. Hectic

"It’s been such a hectic day, Martin," yawned Douglas, not turning from his slumped position on the settee to look over at the captain, who’d just come into the lounge.

 

"I know it has," agreed Martin. "It’s just that -"

 

"Oh, love," groaned Douglas. "If this is about moving that bookcase - the one with all your flying manuals on - it’ll have to wait till the weekend."

 

"No," Martin said, "it’s not that. It’s -"

 

Douglas sighed. “Is it that I’ve not done the washing up? I promise I’ll do it first thing. It won’t come to any harm being left overnight, not just for once. I’m so tired.”

 

"I know you are. I -"

 

"Oh, Lord." Douglas’ voice was almost anguished, now. "Don’t tell me that Mrs Jessop’s cat’s lost again. She hasn’t been round asking us to go and look for it, has she? Only it’ll be the third time this fortnight, and honestly at this point I think she’ll just have to wake up and realise that that moggy’s actually trying to tell her something -"

 

"No!" Martin exclaimed, finally giving up on getting a word in edgeways and just interrupting Douglas back. "Will you turn around and look at me, you adorable idiot?"

 

Surprised, the FO swivelled round, and took in the sight of Martin hovering in the doorway. Martin continued. “I was  _trying_  to say - I know you’ve had a busy day, and I’m so pleased to see you relaxing at last, and so I’ve brought you this.” And he stepped forward and pushed the enormous mug of hot chocolate he carried into Douglas’ surprised hands.

 

"Oh," managed Douglas, sheepishly. He looked down at the mug in his grip as Martin wiggled on to the sofa, finding space by the FO’s tummy - bracketed within the crescent shape Douglas had curved into whilst lying down. "Oh," Douglas repeated. "Thank you." He raised his eyebrows. "Whipped cream too?"

 

Martin beamed. “I thought you deserved spoiling.” He teasingly reached out and poked his finger into the froth before swiftly transferring the white blob to Douglas’ nose. “After all - it’s been a  _hectic_  day.”

 

Douglas grinned and poked his tongue out, trying to reach the cream on his face. He gave up after a few ineffectual swipes, and set the mug carefully on to the carpet. 

 

Martin’s face fell slightly. “You don’t like it?”

 

Douglas smiled. “I love it.” He pulled Martin down to spoon against him, nosing the cream against the curve of the captain’s ear, to a wriggle and a chuckle and a muffled ‘ _hey_!’ from Martin. “I love hot chocolate. But  _you_  are even  _more_  delicious.”


	9. Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely fractionally foxtrot (fractionallyfoxtrot.tumblr.com), for whom this chapter was written originally, was kind enough to commission to splendidly talented indyfalcon (indyfalcon.tumblr.com) to provide some art for the story - so thank you both for allowing me to feature it here!

"This is ridiculous. It’s late. We should be at home." Carl tried his best to sound grumpy, but instead his words came out with a distinctly teasing ring to them. 

 

Martin barely noticed anyway, his gaze still fixed on the skies, oblivious to the murmured shuffles of the other plane-spotters gathered in scattered huddles in their vicinity. Carl sighed. “Honestly. I spend all day with my eyes trained on planes coming in, and you make me drive to London in my off-hours just so I can see another one?”

 

Martin did turn at that, a slightly guilty expression playing across his features. “This  _is_  a very special one, after all - the first landing of the A690 in the UK! And you said you didn’t mind,” he reminded Carl, his hand leaving the binoculars hanging round his neck and finding his partner’s, twining their fingers warmly together.

 

Carl sighed and shook his head. “I did say that, didn’t I?” He smiled at Martin. “Good job that I’m -“

 

But at the roar of an incoming plane, he lost Martin’s attention. The captain jerked back to his study of each aircraft’s markings as they thundered overhead. Carl was momentarily offended, but then relaxed with a chuckle, snuggling almost unnoticed into Martin’s side where they sat. Absently, still glued to his binoculars, Martin wrapped an arm round him and pulled him closer until they were practically one single entity, jacket indistinguishable from jacket, body from body. 

 

"Any minute now," Martin whispered, almost to himself. Carl could feel the excitement thrumming through the captain even sitting still. Martin didn’t budge as the metallic roar of the A320 coming in crescendoed before gradually fading as it passed over their heads and found Heathrow’s runway. He checked his watch. "19.31," he muttered. "It _is_ late."

 

The other spotters around them were chattering more and more animatedly now, anticipation flowing so vividly over the wasteground that Carl could have sworn it was a tangible, electric spark, zipping between the people staring at the inbound planes. Martin abruptly stiffened beside him, making him jump. “There!” he cried, pointing.

 

Carl followed the line of his finger. Others were gesturing, too, as the outline of the giant plane gradually solidified where it had been blurring in the evening haze. At first, he thought it was closer than it was, but then he realised - “It’s enormous,” he whispered to Martin.

 

"I told you," Martin babbled excitedly, binoculars never leaving his eyes, where he was gripping them so forcefully his knuckles were white. "Biggest commercial plane ever to take to the air. And it’s coming here, Carl, it’s coming…!"

 

"I can see that," Carl laughed, wrapping an arm entirely unremarked around the captain. His arm only stayed in position for five seconds before Martin leapt to his feet, dragging the ATC with him. "Oof!" Carl protested, but then was taken aback to find the binoculars being shoved into his hands.

 

"Look!" Martin’s face was aglow with delight.

 

Carl gaped. “But you want to see - these are yours!”

 

Martin beamed. “I want you to see too. Quick, quick, or you’ll miss it!” He urged Carl round as the plane twitched lower.

 

 

Carl took a quick look, absorbing the markings, the shiny new paint, the wheels dangling low beneath the pregnant body of the gargantuan aircraft. It  _was_  impressive, he had to admit to himself. But he hastily returned the binoculars to Martin, who was dancing from foot-to-foot next to him. 

 

Martin grabbed them back with an incandescent beam. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he cooed, rapturously. The noise of the huge engines was throbbing through their bodies, now, as the plane raced ever closer. Carl grinned, both of them watching its rapid arrival intently. He jumped as Martin suddenly clasped his hand, almost breaking his fingers with the fervency of his clutch - part of him pleasantly surprised that Martin was still aware of his presence, even with the object of his passion looming so near.

 

The plane screamed - it was overhead - surely nothing that large could stay in the sky, yet it was aloft - it was landing - it was… gone. 

 

Carl glanced sideways, seeing Martin return to earth as well as the plane. For a few moments, Carl knew, his partner’s soul had been up in the air, soaring with the aircraft he was watching. An unexpected thrum of adoration tingled through him, and he wrapped Martin in his arms and pressed a kiss to his lips. “All you’d hoped?” he asked, as they separated slightly.

 

Martin sighed, happily. “And more.” He smiled, and kissed Carl again, warmth flooding both of them, the other plane spotters forgotten. Carl ran a teasing hand up Martin’s neck, before drawing back. 

 

"Come on, you." He chucked Martin’s chin. "It really  _is_  late. And we still have to drive back to Fitton.”

 

Martin nodded, but glanced wistfully at the sky, where another flight’s rumble was beginning to make itself heard. “Five more minutes?”

 

Carl blinked. “But these are just regular planes. You see these every day - it’s not like the first landing of the A690…” He stopped, seeing the expression on Martin’s face. “Oh, alright then.” Carl laughed. “Five more minutes.”

 

"Thank you." Martin pulled him down on to the ground again, and this time he cuddled into Carl’s side, rather than the other way around. "I love you."

 

Carl rested his chin into Martin’s soft curls. “Love you too.”


	10. Risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the third fandot creativity night - the prompt was 'risky business'.

Herc had always known that getting into a… whatever this was, with Douglas, would be a risky business. He’d spotted him at the Freshers’ Fair, his very first day at Bristol University – had been idly wandering from stall to stall to see what freebies he could pick up, when suddenly he’d heard a low-pitched chuckle just behind him that made him involuntarily spin around. 

The source of the attractive laugh was immediately obvious – an older student standing behind a stall Herc hadn't previously noticed. A group of girls were surrounding the table, hanging on the second year's every word, but Herc’s eyes had still brightened as he’d registered the name of the society whose table this floppy-haired student was manning – ‘The University of Bristol Gliding Society’. 

Without a second thought, he’d strode over, and insinuated himself confidently into the stall’s orbit. He’d stuck out a hand, not noticing the offended looks shot in his direction by several of the female freshers who’d been caught up in conversation with the object of his attentions. “Hi,” he’d said. “I’d like to join.”

“Would you, now?” The older boy looked round, self-assurance to match Herc’s own radiating from every pore as he shook his hand. “Any previous experience?”

“Some,” Herc said, trying not to focus on the fact that he could feel the warmth of the boy’s palm in his. “My dad’s aircraft-mad. I’ve had a few flying lessons.”

“Douglas. Douglas Richardson,” said the boy, withdrawing his hand after a firm tug of greeting. An unconscious flick of Douglas’ eyes over Herc’s tall figure rekindled the spark he’d felt on hearing the chuckle, just minutes before.  _Perhaps he’s not as straight as he’d like everyone to think_ …

Herc had shoved the thought aside, and then tried to hide his habitual slight wince at having to reveal his unusual name. But Douglas had just laughed in a matey way, rather than antagonistically, and from that moment on their relationship had been as easy as breathing.

For the most part. The frantic kissing in hangar one, after six months of catching each other’s furtive glances… well,  _that_  had led to quite a few minutes of strained awkwardness; both of them very aware that their actions were only barely legal. But they hadn’t seemed to be able to stay away from each other. It had been nearly a year, now – a year of clandestine fumblings and hearty public laughter and slaps on the back to conceal the shameful activity that went on in private.

And now Douglas had left Herc a message in his building’s pigeonhole – ‘ _Come over. Must see you._ ’ – and Herc was walking urgently over the downs to get from his halls to Douglas’ rather posh student flat. He knocked on the door with a sense of trepidation – he’d had the feeling that things weren’t…. right, for a few weeks now.

Douglas ushered him into his room with a muttered ‘hullo’, but didn’t follow his usual pattern of pulling him onto his bed for a fervent, fevered kiss.

Herc’s heart sank. “What is it?” he asked; though part of him already knew. All of him was fighting against his intuition, however, curling away from the pain he suspected was coming.

Douglas wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m giving up my degree.”

Herc’s mouth dropped open. “But… your parents!”

“I can’t do this for them.” Douglas’ hands were wringing together, and Herc longed to take them but didn’t dare.

“No, I suppose not…” Herc didn’t know what to say. “Are you leaving Bristol?”

Douglas nodded. “I’m going to try for the Oxford Aviation Academy. I’ll become a pilot, instead.”

Herc brightened immediately, premature relief creeping in. “Like me! Perhaps we’ll fly together!” He stepped forward, but something in Douglas’ expression held him back from embracing the older boy, itching to though he was.

“I can’t… do  _this_  any more…” Douglas’ voice was quiet.

“What?”

“I can’t disappoint my parents twice. I can’t be  _gay_  and…” Douglas waved his hands. “… not a doctor.”

Herc felt his heart freeze. “I see.”

“I’m sorry.” Douglas looked at him for the first time. “I am.”

“I know.” And Herc turned, and walked out of Douglas’ life. He’d taken a gamble… and it hadn’t paid off. “Never again,” he muttered to himself as he strode home, dashing a hand across his irritatingly blurring eyes. “Never again.”


	11. Birdwatching

“Wait, wait!” Herc and Douglas turned as Arthur came dashing after them both. Puffing, the steward rested both hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Where – where are you two going?”

Herc grinned. “Well, we are, as you know, in America.”

Arthur straightened up, still pink of cheek. “I know! It’s brilliant! Las Vegas!” The neon lights of their motel played off his face, giving him an even more manic expression than usual.

Herc’s beam widened. “So Douglas and I – since this is our first trip to the grand old US of A together since the beginning of OJS Air – we’re going to head to a few bars.” He stopped, but Douglas’ wolfish grin indicated that the captain was willing to continue where his first officer wouldn’t.

“We’re going birdwatching.” Douglas watched Arthur taking this in, seeing confusion spread across the younger man’s face.

“Birdwatching? In a bar?” Arthur was bewildered. “But… you don’t drink, Douglas! And you –“ he turned to Herc, this time more accusingly. “You’re married. To my Mum!”

Herc shook his head, placatingly. “Not those kind of birds, Arthur. Not the ones Mr Birling talks about.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, mollified. “But you still don’t drink, Douglas.”

Douglas looked around urgently. “Keep your voice down. You can come, if you like.”

“I can?” Arthur bounced on his heels excitedly. “Brilliant!” 

The three of them fell into step, heading down the Las Vegas strip. “Chaps,” Arthur said, enquiringly, “I still don’t understand. How are you going to find birds in bars… if you’re not talking about the lady-type?” 

Douglas wagged his finger mysteriously. “Ah, young Arthur. That would be telling.”

Herc smiled. “Why don’t you see if you can work it out by the time we get back to the hotel later?”

“Like a mystery?” Arthur’s voice was filled with excitement. “That sounds fun!”

Both pilots laughed, but there was affection in it. “Good,” said Douglas. “Lead on, Miss Marple. You can choose the first bar.”

Arthur pondered, then pointed. “That one.” 

Douglas followed the direction of his finger. “Of course.” They crossed the street, Douglas chuckling. “The one with the giant pineapple on the sign. I should have known.”

Herc suddenly swivelled beside the two of them, to Arthur’s surprise. “Hellooo, sailor!” he called, rather assertively, to an older man in fancy dress – Popeye, Arthur thought he recognized. “Nice pipe!”

Arthur wasn’t surprised when the man made a rude gesture towards Herc, though he charitably thought that perhaps the first officer had just been trying to be a bit too friendly. He didn’t understand the look of smug satisfaction Herc gave Douglas, though… nor Douglas’ grumpy sigh in return…

 

* * *

 

Four hours later, the three men ambled happily back to the hotel, Arthur and Douglas on a juice-high, and Herc with the warmth of three glasses of passable wine in his bloodstream. Arthur was still confused, though.

“Chaps,” he pondered. “I don’t mean to be critical… I mean, you’re both brilliant, of course… but I couldn’t help noticing that you both talked to a lot of… strangers, tonight.”

“Aha,” said Douglas, teasingly. “Talked to?”

“Well,” Arthur considered. “Made fun of. From a bit of a distance.  _Nicely_ , of course,” he hastened to add. “No one seemed that offended, not seriously… except a lot of them did swear at you.”

“Indeed they did.” Herc clapped Arthur on the shoulder. “Do you know, I think you might be hot on the trail of your answer, Miss Marple.”

Arthur looked round, both of his pilots watching him expectantly, with laughter in their eyes. “I don’t get it.”

Douglas grinned. “Y’see, in America, Arthur… they have an excellent expression for that hand gesture several of them made in Herc’s and my direction.”

“They do?” Arthur was still perplexed.

Herc nodded, then turned to Douglas. “5-4, I think?” he smirked. “In my favour?”

“Hmmm,” Douglas grumbled. “I think you’ll find I still hold the record, through. You’ve never come close to that 17 I achieved in New York in ’96.”

“True,” Herc acknowledged. “Still, winning tonight’s bird-off is enough to put a spring in my step for tomorrow. And the cheesecake in my hands.”

Douglas sniffed, and unlocked his room. 

“I still don’t understand,” said Arthur, happy to see Herc grinning.

“Of course not.” Douglas turned away, but called over his shoulder. “Your phone has wifi here, doesn’t it, Arthur?”

“Yeah.”

“Try googling ‘flipping the bird’.” Douglas waved. “Goodnight both.”

Herc patted Arthur’s back with an amicable snigger. “See you in the morning.”


	12. Couch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the third fandot creativity night - to answer the prompt 'mouse and/or couch'.
> 
> Note trigger warning for domestic violence for this chapter.

“ _Douglas_?” Martin gaped in astonishment at the sight of his first officer hovering awkwardly on his doorstep. “What are you doing here? It’s one in the morning!”

“Um.” Douglas sounded uncharacteristically ill-at-ease. “Sorry to disturb, and all that. It’s just… look – can I come in?”

“Of course.” Martin stood back to let him past. “Whatever’s going on?” He ushered Douglas through to the messy lounge, thanking his stars that it was the university vacation and his three student housemates were back at their parents’ homes for the holidays. 

Douglas took a seat on the poorly-stuffed couch, hanging his head. Given the anti-social hour, he looked just as tired as Martin felt, but simultaneously far more drawn and grey than seemed healthy; Martin had rarely seen him appear so miserable. And then Douglas looked up, and Martin let out a cry of surprise, making the FO jump. “What’s happened to your cheek?!”

A vicious cut was evident in the artificial light of the lounge, running just under Douglas’ eye towards his hairline. Douglas gave a rueful grin. “This?” He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

Martin hesitated. “Looks painful.”

Douglas touched a finger to it. “It’s not bleeding again, is it?”

The captain shook his head no. “I only saw you…” he counted “- six hours ago. What’s gone on since? You didn’t look as if someone had come at you with a knife then.”

He caught Douglas’ wince and a flare of worry clenched at his insides, but then the FO met his eyes more calmly. “I – well, I had a slight disagreement with Helena.”

“I… see…” Martin said slowly, although he didn’t really.

“She had found my stash of Mr Birling’s ex-Talisker in the shed. And she drew the wrong conclusion.”

“Oh.” Martin didn’t know what to say. “But that doesn’t explain… she attacked you?”

Douglas looked surprised. “Attacked? No. Not really. I mean…” he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “She shouted a lot – well, she thought she had good reason. I promised her when we married –  _no drinking_ , not under any circumstances.” He rubbed one arm, fretfully, looking nothing like the self-assured Douglas that Martin knew. “And, yes, she threw some things. My computer mouse. A flying manual - yes, I do still have them, even if I don’t read them all that often.” Douglas was clearly trying for teasing, but he rubbed the side of his head absently and when he took his hand away then Martin could see the beginnings of a goose-egg there. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to throw the pen sharp-end first.” He looked almost pleadingly at the captain. “She couldn’t have known how pointy it was.”

“She patched you up?” Martin asked. The wound, though sizeable, looked clean and neat.

Douglas shrugged, embarrassedly. “No. She…” He waved a frustrated hand, clearly humiliated at having to set all of it out for Martin. “She told me to get out. I stopped at the garage, splashed water at it. It's fine.” There was a pause. “I’ll be able to go back in the morning,” he added, hastily. “I’ll be able to explain once she’s calmed down.” 

“Right…” Martin was at a loss to know how to respond. “Does she often… throw stuff?” He’d met Helena, had thought she was elegant, posh – couldn’t imagine her losing control. And yet Douglas was plainly telling the truth, despite the humiliation it was costing him.

Douglas laughed. “It’s nothing. All good relationships get a bit… tempestuous. It’s nothing,” he said again, but Martin couldn’t help feeling that it sounded more as if he was trying to convince himself of the trifling nature of what had occurred. “It’s  _fine_ , really.” He gave himself a shake. “Just wondered if you wouldn’t mind accruing a future massive favour to your credit.”

Martin raised his eyebrows, shrewdly, forestalling the unasked question. “You can sleep on the couch, of course.” He stood, ill-defined unease still curling through his abdomen. “I’ll get you some blankets.”

“Thanks,” said Douglas, clear relief in his voice, and Martin tried not to notice how his FO’s hands shook as he left the room.


	13. Piano

Martin loves listening to Douglas play the piano, and when he's moved in, he'll quite often curl up with a book in the lounge while Douglas improvises tunes that are intricate and moving and beautiful just to make Martin smile unconsciously as he reads.

 

Then one day Douglas goes out shopping, except he realises five minutes down the road that he's forgotten his wallet, so he goes back to the house. He's surprised when he arrives home to hear music, and at first he thinks Martin has a CD playing; but then he peeks curiously through the window of the lounge from the front garden and discovers Martin, sitting at the piano, playing from one of Douglas' easier songbooks. The music isn't wildly difficult, and there's the odd stumble or bum note - but what captivates Douglas is the look on Martin's face as he plays. It's like seeing a new side to his partner that he's never glimpsed before, a lost look of happiness and concentration. The closest Douglas can compare it to is when Martin's banking GERTI - it has something of the same soaring joy in it - but it's indefinably new, too, the transport of the music an element that Douglas has never witnessed.

 

Oh so softly, he lets himself into the house and creeps into the lounge. When Martin finishes the piece, Douglas breaks into a round of spontaneous applause, making Martin jump and spin round.

 

"I thought you were out - I -" The captain blushes to the roots of his hair. "I'm not very good."

 

Douglas crosses the room to envelop him in an enormous hug. "It was lovely," he says into the top of Martin's head.

 

He feels Martin shift a little awkwardly in his arms. "Oh. Oh. Did you think so? I got bits wrong - I mucked up the bridge, and I'm not too good at the pedal -"

 

"Martin," says Douglas firmly, taking a seat on the bench next to him, "shut up and play me another song, you unexpectedly gifted idiot."


	14. Robot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the 4th fandot creativity night - a drabble for the prompt 'robots'.

“I’m not a robot, Douglas!” Helena shrieked at him, advancing furiously on where he stood in the doorway, awkwardly holding out the bunch of flowers. “You can’t just treat me as a problem to be magically fixed.” She glared. “It’s not ‘get-home-late-AGAIN plus bunch-of-sad-flowers equals miraculously-happy-wife! I don’t forgive automatically. I’m FURIOUS with you.”

Douglas sagged. “I know I haven’t been here much–“ An angry hiss silenced him. “I _am_ sorry.”

Helena’s face crumpled, and he stepped towards her. “Perhaps a hobby would keep you busy while I’m at work,” he suggested. “Weren’t you going to try t’ai chi?”


	15. Ticket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the 4th fandot creativity night - the prompt was 'ticket'; here's a double-drabble.

For Carolyn, it was Rigoletto at the Royal Opera House, a box, just for her and Herc, on their first wedding anniversary. She’d known he could be sentimental, but this was surpassing himself.

For Arthur, it had to be the ticket he never bought, had never even held – the lottery slip that showed _his_ numbers coming up, that single time they did. It was enough to know that it existed somewhere, that his numbers were treasured and loved.

For Martin, it was the one he’d saved and saved for – a precious pass to see Waldo Waldman, the motivational speaker who was an ace US fighter pilot. Even if the thrust of his talk had been that ‘no pilot can fly alone’… and _that_ meant he’d had to reconsider Douglas, early on in his time at MJN. Perhaps Douglas would have to be – could be – the reliable and trusted wingman that Waldo said was essential?

And for Douglas, it was a grubby stub, with a greasy fingermark on – reading ‘Barrow Primary’s Nativity Play’ and dated 15th Dec 2008 – for the memory of Emily’s face when she’d spotted him unexpectedly in the audience, seeing her play Mary for the first time ever.


	16. Goose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the 4th fandot creativity night - the prompt was 'duck duck goose'.

Arthur was sad, which didn’t happen very often. He was waiting in the vet’s office, holding tightly onto Snoopadoop, who seemed keen to make friends with a nearby cat who didn’t look at all amicable. The steward was waiting for Martin to emerge from the vet’s consulting room. Gerti Uskerty, Martin’s goose, had been looking listless for days, and when Arthur had gone down to the end of the garden to feed her that morning, she’d just honked half-heartedly at him and ignored her food. He’d hesitated to tell the Captain – although Martin had to keep Gerti at Carolyn’s house (even Arthur knew she wouldn’t be at home in an attic), he seemed to have become almost fond of her, and Arthur had caught him smuggling titbits to her more than once. Arthur knew Martin would be terribly upset if his goose-friend was sick.

  
Just then the door opened, and Arthur looked up, his usually happy face creased into lines of worry. He relaxed a little as Martin emerged, holding Gerti tightly by the wings, her head drooping; Martin, though, looked a little better. He joined Arthur. “Well?” Arthur asked, concernedly.

  
“She’s not sick - just lonely, the vet thinks,” Martin explained, trying to adjust his hat where it had been knocked slightly askew by the bird’s wriggling.

  
“Oh!” Relief swamped Arthur in a wave. “Do you think it’d help if I spent more time chatting to her? And you and Mum too?”

  
Skip smiled, but didn’t laugh at him, like Arthur knew so many people would have done. It was one of the reasons he really liked Skip. “I’m afraid that Gerti’s missing other birds like her,” he said.

  
Arthur’s spirits sank. “Oh.” He reflected for a few seconds. “But… there’s not really any room for another goose on Mum’s small pond, is there?”

  
Martin shook his head no. He sighed. “I’m sorry. I think we’ll have to give her up.” The two of them walked dolefully back to the car park, Arthur’s brain whirring furiously over the problem.

  
He thought – and thought – and thought – and then, at 4am, it suddenly came to him. Memories of that game that Mrs Dimmont had always played with the class, when she wasn’t trying to help Arthur spell queen and quick and quiet and quiz. That game – that was the answer! He’d just have to do some research…

  
Two days later, he texted to invite Martin over, greeting him with a mysterious grin and tap of the nose before leading him out to the garden. It looked as though Martin had come all prepared to say goodbye – he even seemed to have brought some sort of cuddly bird (Arthur saw straight through the ‘it’s for my nephew!’ excuse). Arthur practically bounced as he showed Martin down to the pond, where Gerti was swimming happily around for the first time in ages, greeting them with an affable ‘honk’.

  
“Look!” said Arthur, as Martin gaped. “I solved it!” He pointed where Martin was staring at Gerti’s two new friends. “Duck, duck, goose!”

 

And he was delighted to see Martin’s face split wide in an enormous grin.


	17. Picture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the 4th fandot creativity night - for the prompt "He's cute, I swear! Let me find a better picture!"

"He’s cute, I swear! Let me find a better picture! He looks all aggressive in that one, in his karate pyjama-things…" Arthur scrolled madly through Facebook, registering the disbelief in Phil’s face. "Ah. Here we go!" He waved the iPhone under the fireman’s nose. 

 

Karl grabbed it instead, though, squinting at the picture. “Nah, I’m sorry, Arthur. Your cousin still looks like a speccy swot to me.” He frowned at the screen. “Is that a ukelele?”

 

Arthur took his phone back, pouting. “No. I think it’s a… lute. That’s what the caption says, anyway… Grade 7 lute. Distinction…. Yeah. A lute.” He thought for a moment. “Is a lute like a ukelele?”

 

Phil snorted, but not unkindly. “It sounds like you’re going to find out,” he said.

 

Arthur brightened. “Yes! Only, please don’t say anything if you see Douglas or Martin or Mum before we fly, chaps, because you know it’s a secret and my aunt is going to surprise Mum and I get to meet little Kieren and it’s going to be brilliant! _So_ brilliant and I just had to tell someone or I was going to burst,” he gabbled, all in a rush, incandescent beam stretching ear to ear.

 

Karl grinned in spite of himself. “Of course.” He patted Arthur on the back amicably. “Though you do know - fourteen year old boys tend not to like being thought of as little. Or cute. Unless you’re a fourteen year old girl.”

 

Arthur blinked at him. “I’m not one of those.”

 

Karl laughed. “Exactly.” He and Phil stood up. “Breaktime’s over.” 

 

Phil clapped the steward on the shoulder. “Good luck with the plan, young Arthur,” he said. “In fact - isn’t that Douglas arriving? You’d better go.”

 

"Ooh, yes!" Arthur sped off towards the Portakabin, so excited that he even failed to notice that Douglas seemed to be laden down with flowers. He was going to get a cousin, and it was going to be the best thing EVER.


	18. Pebbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the fifth fandot creativity night - the prompt was 'pebbles'.

“Not like that, Arthur!” Douglas put his hands on his hips and squinted sideways, looking at the spreading ripples where the steward’s pebble had sunk. “Like this.” He stooped to scoop up another flattish stone and with one flick of his wrist he sent it skipping across the surface – one, two, three, four hops before it sank in the distance.

 

“Show-off,” grumbled Martin. His own attempts at stone-skimming had stalled at two bounces, and his mood hadn’t been improved by Arthur’s innocent observation that ‘but you’re called Skip, Skip! The stones should skip for you, surely?”

 

Douglas grinned. “I’m very good, I know.” He handed another stone to Arthur. “Try this one, it’s flat.”

 

Arthur turned it over, thoughtfully. “Look!” he said, wonderingly. “It’s pretty.” He held it out to his mother, who was appearing to try to read on the riverbank (though all three of her colleagues knew she was actually listening in avidly to their discussion).

 

Carolyn looked up, nose wrinkled, but then she took the stone. “Very nice, Arthur,” she said. “I think that’s got a fossil in it.”

 

Douglas stepped closer. “Really?” he asked. Wordlessly, Carolyn held the pebble out for his inspection. “So it has.”

 

“Brilliant!” Arthur skipped on the spot. “You keep that one, Mum.”

 

“GERTI’s heavy enough without us taking rocks home from Poland with us,” Carolyn groused, but none of them missed that she pocketed the fossil anyway.

 

“Right, one last go.” Douglas turned back to the riverbank and chuckled at the fading ripples of Martin’s latest, slightly lacklustre attempt. “Then we have to go and find food, I’m starving.” He looked at Martin and Arthur. “Shall we race them?”

 

Arthur nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah!”

 

“Arthur, you haven’t managed one skip yet,” Martin sniffed. “Why would you offer to compete?” The look in his eyes was amused, though.

 

“I might master it! There’s still time!”

 

“And you’ve only managed two, _Skipper_ ,” Douglas said, wryly.

 

“As Arthur says,” Martin retorted, bending to find a suitable missile, “I might master it now I have an _incentive_ to try.”

 

Douglas laughed, grabbing a pebble of his own. “Ready?”

 

Martin and Arthur replied in chorus. “Ready!”

 

“On three then,” Douglas commanded. “One, two, three!”

 

 _Skip_ … Arthur’s stone bounced once, then sank.

 

 _Skip, skip_ …. Martin’s pebble followed the steward’s to the depths.

 

 _Skip, skip, skip_ … Douglas’ shot over the water for ten metres, and he uttered a cry of triumph as it disappeared from view, but –

 

 _Skip-skip-skip-skip_ – with a series of rapid splashes, a fourth pebble skimmed over the surface, going an incredible way before vanishing with a _clop_ of lazily expanding ripples. “Aha,” came Carolyn’s self-satisfied exclamation. “I haven’t forgotten how to do it, then.”

 

And she turned with a smirk and led her gaggle of aircrewish-geese back to their hotel.


	19. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the fifth fandot creativity night - the prompt was '2am'.

“Ugh.” Martin leant forward over the yoke, rubbing his eyes sleepily as Douglas (for once) completed the shutdown checks unscrutinised by his captain. “What time is it?”

 

“Here? 9pm.” Douglas flipped the last switch decisively, yawning himself. “In Fitton? 2am.”

 

“Two in the morning…” Martin sagged back against his chair. “I got no sleep last night, the students were partying… end of exams…”

 

Douglas looked over, noting Martin’s drawn countenance, the greyish pallor of his normally rosy cheeks. “Well, bedtime’s imminent,” he said, trying to sound breezy, but in reality failing to conceal his concern. Martin had looked so fatigued, lately; Douglas had noticed Martin almost falling asleep in the portacabin several times (though never at the controls, of course).

 

“Imminent?” Martin scoffed, exhaustedly. “When Carolyn’ll have booked a hotel miles away to save on cost?”

 

“Kip in the taxi?” Douglas suggested, standing with a stretch. He clapped Martin on the shoulder. “Come on. Nearly done, Captain.” Gently urging the other man to his feet, he almost had to catch him as Martin mis-stepped in his tiredness and caught his shoe on the chair. “Whoa, there!”

 

“Sorry,” Martin slurred. “Where’s… cab?”

 

“Out we go.” Douglas took Martin’s elbow and steered him to the exit, the captain’s head drooping almost onto his chest. He ignored Carolyn and Arthur’s surprised stares, and was relieved to see their stand wasn’t far from the terminal. “This way.”

 

Martin stumbled as they walked, beyond even yawning to keep himself awake. He sagged in the queue for passport examinations, and leant ever-more heavily on Douglas, without seeming to realise he was doing so. By the time he shuffled into the taxi, he was practically asleep on his feet – and when they finally pulled up at the hotel in New Jersey, he was snoring lightly, even despite Arthur treating every single cab spotted as a chance to call out ‘yellow car!’

 

Carolyn reached to poke the captain, but Douglas stopped her. “Let me.” He walked around to the passenger seat, opened the door and looked down at his slumbering senior officer. “Martin,” he said, quietly, “we’re here.”

 

No response. Martin looked so peaceful asleep, relaxed in a way he never achieved when he was awake – not that Douglas had seen, anyway. He couldn’t bear to disturb him. Carolyn approached, but Douglas waved her away. “I’ve got it.” With a sigh, he bent forwards, slipped his arms under Martin’s legs and around his back and lifted him out of the car, his head lolling against Douglas’ chest in a manner Douglas found reminiscent of his daughter in her younger years.

 

Staggering a little under Martin’s weight, he carried him up to the room Carolyn had checked them into, and deposited him as gently as possible on the bed. He wriggled the captain’s shoes off as Martin stirred and mumbled something (though he didn’t wake) - then threw a blanket over him.

 

For a moment he stood and gazed down at him. “Goodnight,” he said, for no reason. He didn’t expect to hear the murmured, slurred response, but it warmed the cockles of his heart when it came.

 

“G’night, D’glas. Thanks… hmmm.” And with a sigh, Martin descended back into dreamless, restful sleep.


	20. Shampoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the fifth fandot creativity night - the prompt was 'shampoo and/or letters'.

“ _OW_!”

 

Douglas’ heart felt as if it had stopped at the first scream from the bathroom. He dropped the towel he’d stepped out to fetch immediately.

 

“OW! Owowowowow….”

 

He raced back up the stairs as Emily continued to scream. _I only left her for a minute, what’s happened? Mel’s going to kill me… Emily, Emily…_ He burst into the bathroom. “Em – what is it? What on earth’s happened?” He was panting, flying towards her, crashing to his knees beside the bath.

 

She groped blindly for him, her eyes screwed up and streaming tears. “Daddy! It hurts!”

 

“What, chicken?” Douglas hugged her, heedless of the soapy water soaking through his pristine shirt from her slippery body in his arms. “Where are you hurt?” He noticed his voice was shaking a little and hastily controlled it. _If she’s injured the first time Mel gives me custody for a week…_

 

“My eyes, Daddy,” Emily sobbed. “Ouchy.”

 

He pulled back a little and suddenly realised that there were suds in her hair and a shampoo bottle floating in the bathwater. “Oh, Em,” he sighed. “Did you try and wash your hair?”

 

She sniffled, her sobs quietening. “Yeah. Mummy told me I had to be grown up if I came to stay with you for a whole week… Owwy owwy ow…”

 

Douglas’ heart-rate slowed a fraction, the fear that had zinged through him at her screams losing its citrus-sharpness. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, and turned to grab the jug they usually used to rinse water through her thick brown curls, so like his own. “You usually let me wash your hair for you.”

 

“I know…” Emily hiccupped a little whimper, rubbing at her eyes.

 

“That’ll make it worse.” Douglas tugged her hand away and filled the jug with cool water from the tap. “Here we go, let’s make it rain the sting away.” He gently poured a trickle over each eye. “Can you open so we get all those nasty suds out?”

 

She tried valiantly, squinting out at him, allowing the water to cleanse her sore, reddened eyelids. Occasional sobbing noises still emerged as the water hit its mark, but generally she was brave and allowed Douglas to wash the shampoo away. 

 

“There we are, darling,” he said, after a few moments’ more gentle pouring. “How’s that?”

 

She sniffed. “M’eyes are all blurry.”

 

“Here.” Douglas held up the shampoo bottle that he’d fished out of the bath. “Can you read this?”

 

She took it from him and peered at the label. “Sham-poo,” she read, seriously.

 

“That’s right.” Douglas took it back. “If you can read those letters, I think you’ll be fine, love.” He cuddled her again, shivering as his now-sopping shirt clung to him. “Shall we wash the rest of you off?”

 

“Yes, Daddy,” she agreed, but then seemed to reconsider. “No more pooey shamPOO though,” she said, bossily, making Douglas laugh.

 

“No more shampoo,” he confirmed, and he splashed her playfully. “Not tonight, anyway.” He helped her rinse off, then scooped her out of the tub and enveloped her in his bathtowel. “All cosy-warm,” he murmured, and scrubbed her down to dry her so she giggled and wriggled. “There we go, Emily-creature. Get your nooks and crannies done…”

 

She obediently bent to dry between her toes. “Good girl,” Douglas said. “That’s the kind of ‘grown-up’ I’d like you to be, and that’s what Mum meant too. You don’t have to be so grown-up that you wash your own hair, I promise.” He took her hand. “Into your jim-jams, then.”

 

“ _Am_ I grown-up, Daddy?” Emily looked up at him seriously as she pulled on her little top.

 

He smiled. “You are the perfect amount of grown-up for exactly right now, my big girl.” He helped her on with the bottoms. “And that doesn’t include using shamPOO.” He echoed her emphasis from earlier, making her giggle. “Come on. Bedtime.” He shepherded her towards the door. “And maybe I’ll be allowed to read my grown-up girl a story?”

 

“Yeah!” Emily’s still-pink eyes lit up, and suddenly she was dragging her dad towards her bedroom, where Douglas knew a book about planes was sitting waiting. “Can I help with the letters?”

 

“Of course,” Douglas said, proudly. “Course you can.” And he read to her until her eyes slid shut and she was sound asleep against his shoulder, the ouchy sting of the evening totally forgotten.


	21. Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the fifth fandot creativity night - the prompt was 'the power of books'.

Arthur would never be described as one of the world’s great readers, he knew. ‘White Fang’ had been a stretch for him, and he had skipped a page or two the first time through. But to prove to his dad he could do it, he’d finished, and then he’d gone back to read it again, just for good measure, because he wanted to help his dad to like him more than he seemed to be able to. He’d try anything, even reading, which he found so hard because the words seemed to wriggle around and nothing stayed still on the page.

He tried. And then he tried to talk to his dad about what he’d read, attempted to make him proud by surprising him. But Gordon had snorted, because Arthur was sixteen, and _honestly_ White Fang was a children’s book and _he’d_ read it when he was ten, and did Arthur really expect him to be able to boast to his friends at the golf club about _that_?

Arthur felt the scorn burn his soul, just a little, and he wandered off, tried to keep smiling, and gave up on the reading. It clearly wasn’t the way he could be most helpful to his Dad. But he didn’t give up on the power of books to help people. A book about bears and the Lonely Planet guide to Mali were testament to that.

 

* * *

 

Douglas’ second marriage ended with a book. Not because of the contents of it – nothing so mundane, not for Douglas Richardson. It was the flight manual that caught the corner of his forehead as Maria flung it across the room at him, along with a stream of invective regarding his long hours and his drinking. He blinked a tiny trickle of blood out of his eye as she berated him, then bent to pick up the manual, straightened the crumpled pages where it had landed on the floor, and walked past her to replace it on the shelf. When he turned around, she’d gone. And so had his last remaining reason not to look for happiness at the bottom of a bottle.

Years later, when Martin asked him about it, his memories flitted back to the heavy tome that had struck him. “My second marriage… wasn't my favourite,” he said. It seemed to sum it up.

 

* * *

 

 

For Martin, it was when he was two; and his aunt read him ‘Aaron the aeroplane’. “Pwane?” he said, his eyes lighting up as his chubby finger jabbed jam onto the page.

“P-lane,” his aunt said indulgently, moving his sticky hand away. “In the sky, like granddad used to… when he flew.”

“He flew?” Martin’s blue, blue eyes were wide and bright.

“In a war, a long time ago, he flew. For the Royal Air Force.”

“He flew, in the sky?” Martin had begun to bounce in his chair, wriggling excitedly.

“Yes, dear.” His aunt tried to put an arm round him, to steady him. “Shall I keep reading? Don’t you want to find out what happens to Aaron the aeroplane?”

Martin did want to find out, but not before he’d run to the window and stared out. “Fly up there?” he asked, pointing up at the cloud-flecked sky.

“Yes, in a plane.”

And Martin knew. He _knew_. He was going to be an aeroplane, one day, like Aaron. Like Granddad had been.

 

* * *

 

 

For Carolyn, it was the book that she bought on a crazy whim very soon after Gordon walked off – with Hayley, but without his plane. ‘An Entrepreneur’s Guide to Starting A Business’, it was called; the title stamped in large, bold letters across the cover. At first, she could barely bring herself to read it; she had enough on her plate, juggling a mortgage, and lawyers, and a 21 year old son who seemed to lose every job he managed to get; because no one really ‘got’ him… but one night she started reading, and was transported. She could see business plans rolling away from her, a success story just waiting to be written; she wasn’t Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, air stewardess, but Ms Knapp-Shappey, CEO.

So she registered the company. My Jet Now. Because it was. And she was what the book had described. Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. Entrepreneur.


	22. Downpour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the fifth fandot creativity night (belatedly) - the prompt was 'Rain'.

“Aw…” Martin had drawn the curtains back and peered out of the window. “Douglas, look.” He waved his partner over, looking utterly miserable.

 

“What is it?” Douglas hastened out of bed to join him, staring into their back garden. “Oh. I see.” 

 

The garden was barely visible through the deluging rain, the heavens flinging daggers of sullen water downwards to slice into the ground. The trees at the far end of the lawn were mere brown smudges through the torrential downpour. 

 

Douglas sighed. “That’s a shame.”

 

“After a whole week of flights, too,” Martin groused. “All I wanted was a chance to get some fresh air after breathing GERTI’s recycled rubbish for seven days straight… and the bloody British weather has to go and do this.” He stomped back to the chest of drawers to extract his jeans, pulling them on with a grumpy huff.

 

Douglas was still staring outside, thoughtfully. He looked sideways and his eyes lit on Emily’s wellies, which had lost a heel and were sitting in their bedroom waiting for him to take them to be repaired. “Hmm,” he said, turning round. “Maybe the day isn’t a total loss.”

 

“How d’you mean?” Martin was dressed now, and wandered back over to him.

 

“Well… what law is there to say that we can’t still go for the walk we had planned?” Douglas raised an eyebrow.

 

Martin looked bewildered. “Douglas, it’s pouring. You can’t possibly think that it’s going to clear up anytime soon.” He gestured to the window, where spattering drops were beating a violent tattoo against the pane.

 

“No,” Douglas agreed. “But who says walks have to be dry?”

 

“What?” Martin let out a surprised laugh. “We’ll get soaked!”

 

“So what?”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Martin opened the front door, staring out at the grey drizzle. “I can’t believe you managed to talk me into this,” he said, disbelievingly.

 

“Come on!” Douglas merrily stepped past the captain and held out a hand to beckon him. “A little water never hurt anyone.”

 

The two of them set off down the street, heading for the country park nearby. They squelched through the muddy gate to the park, then by silent agreement wandered down their favourite footpath, marvelling at the sound of the rain pattering staccato rhythms in the treetops arching over them. Douglas shook his head, causing his hair to fluff out wildly, sparkly droplets caught in the strands, and Martin laughed. His chuckle echoed muffledly back; he fell silent.

 

“It’s so quiet,” he said, wonderingly. “No dog walkers… no kids running about.”

 

“Splendid isolation,” Douglas agreed, and took Martin’s hand. They strolled together uphill to their best-loved spot, a little rocky outcropping that looked out across Fitton. The grey clouds were rolling over the houses in the valley beneath them, and they could make out sheets of rain wavering back and forth, slicing the landscape into varying degrees of hazy indistinctness. A ray of sunshine broke through the thick clouds in the distance, spearing downwards to light up a tiny patch of far-off farmland.

 

“Impressive,” Martin murmured, and shivered a little; it wasn’t truly chilly, being early summer, but the rain had soaked right through his shirt - his waterproof jacket obviously needed replacing.

 

Douglas noticed, and wrapped his arms cosily round him. “Cold?”

 

“Not now,” smiled Martin, and leant up to kiss him - a kiss that started slowly, but became more heated and passionate. He moved his hands to cradle Douglas’ cheeks, sliding his thumbs over his lover’s rain-damp skin, snuggling into the warmth radiating from Douglas even in the downpour.

 

The FO responded to Martin’s ardour, pulling him even closer, almost bending him backwards in his enthusiasm. They kissed without restraint, without hesitancy, alone in the storm; no thoughts except for each other and the sound of the slowly lessening rain.


	23. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the sixth fandot creativity night - the prompt was "Blanket and/or alone".

Martin curled up, wishing that the students would hurry up and go out, for goodness’ sake. The noise of their pre-load drinking (if that was what they called it) was carrying clearly up to his attic, and the bass from the music they were blasting was trembling his futon as he lay in it.   _Vacation soon_ , he assured himself, but still, he found himself once again cursing the need to house-share at the age of 36.

 

At long last, the front door slammed and the chatter and babble of voices faded away down the driveway. Martin rolled onto his back with a sigh of relief at the blessed quiet. He gazed up at his skylight. The moon had just ridden into the corner, high enough in the sky to spill a little extra illumination onto his bed, and the plastic edge of the Velux was as good as a picture frame – the majesty of the solar system and stars hung out on his ceiling, just for him to enjoy. Him… and no one else.

 

Martin slid a hand sideways, into the empty space next to him. _Why did I buy a double bed? Not like it gets any use, ever_. His heart sank. _Alone. Always alone._

 

He tugged the blanket more warmly up to his chin, and tried to tell himself not to be so maudlin. There would be somebody out there for him. That’s what his family always tried to say to him when he brought it up when he was younger. _Plenty of fish in the sea_ , of course there were. But time was passing, and none of the fish ever seemed to be his own _particular_ fish… and not everyone could get the Hollywood ending, after all. _Not everyone finds someone_.

 

The silence of the house, at first so welcome, was suddenly pressing in on him; the wind whipping over the roof rattling through the tiles, hollowly. _He_ felt hollow. There was no one here with him, and no prospect that there ever would be. He used to wonder – to imagine that the person he was going to end up with was Out There, walking around, neither of them yet aware of the other – that perhaps one day they’d compare notes – _so where were you on that date?_ – and maybe they’d discover they’d seen the same film, or been in the same foreign capital, and just not known that their future other half was there too, and they’d laugh and press their foreheads together, and think how odd was fate.

 

Except – perhaps he’d always been wrong. Perhaps there _was_ no eventual soulmate for him. No cliched happy ending. No one out there who was destined to become his… And then even if by some miracle he did meet someone, get married, just look at Douglas – Douglas, who three times had said ‘I do’, had been convinced that he was standing next to the other part of his heart and soul, and who had each time been deserted and left wanting and alone –

 

 _Alone_. _Like me_. Martin clutched the blanket a little tighter between his fingers. It wasn’t late – must only be 10pm, if that. Douglas had always been a night owl. Without thinking, he reached for his phone, and dialled the number.

 

“Hello?”

 

“ _Martin? What’s up? A little late for you to be calling, isn’t it?_ ” The FO sounded surprised, but not displeased, to Martin’s relief.

 

“I just – I wondered –“ He cleared his throat. “I’ve got the house to myself. Do you… want to come over?”

 

“ _Come over?_ ”

 

“I don’t know… maybe watch a film? Play a game? We’ve no flights till Tuesday…” Martin trailed off. _God – if he laughs at me –_

 

“ _That – well, it’s unexpected, Martin – but – well, yes, I suppose I could_.” Douglas’ tone grew warmer. “ _I’ll be there in – ooh, twenty minutes._ ”

 

“Perfect. Bye.” Martin hung up, and a cautious smile twitched his lips upwards, just slightly. He looked up again. The moon was drifting away, was nearly out of the view of his window.

 

“I’m OK,” he told it, as it flew on through the skies. “I’m not alone.”


	24. Tent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the sixth fandot creativity night - the prompt was "Confusion and/or tent".

Martin was confused. Douglas had been being most peculiar for the last six weeks; he’d gone from teasing him to complimenting him (which Martin didn’t trust – he was still waiting for some vital part to disappear from GERTI, sold by the FO, or for crates of illegal material to be discovered aboard as Douglas’ latest money-making scheme came to fruition). And now Douglas had invited him out to dinner. _Him_. The captain that Douglas had clearly only barely tolerated for years.

 

They’d had… well, Martin supposed it was a pleasant evening. The food was excellent. Douglas had paid. Conversation had generally flowed, despite Martin’s perplexity. And Douglas had even given him a lift home. Martin had offered him coffee, since he didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry to drive away again, and had been astonished when Douglas – _Douglas_ of the detached house at the posh end of Fitton – had said yes and followed him inside. So now they were upstairs in his attic room, nursing a mug each, and Martin still didn’t have a clue what Douglas was trying to accomplish.

 

“This is… nice.” Douglas waved vaguely with his mug, and sat down on the futon.

 

Martin joined him – there was nowhere else to sit. “No it’s not,” he said suspiciously, and eyed the first officer sideways. “Out with it.”

 

Douglas looked startled. “Out with what?”

 

“Well, you must want something. You always do.” Martin sighed and set his cup down, preparatory to asking what Douglas’ ulterior motives were this time, but was cut off abruptly – as Douglas placed a hand on his cheek, turned his head sideways, and kissed him.

 

Martin was so surprised, for a few seconds he went onto autopilot and kissed back, his senses suddenly overwhelmed with the smell, taste and feel of Douglas surrounding him. His brain abruptly kicked in, and he leapt up. “What – what are you doing?”

 

Douglas seemed shocked. “Kissing you?”

 

“What? Why?” Martin’s hands curled and uncurled desperately at his sides.

 

A confused head tilt. “Because… I thought the date had gone well?”

 

“ _Date_?” Martin couldn’t process it. How – how had Douglas discovered what he’d previously managed so successfully to hide?

 

“Well… yes.” Douglas’ face was moving from confusion to horror. “You didn’t think – you didn’t know this was a date?”

 

“N-ooo…”

 

Douglas stood hastily. “I’m – I’m so sorry. I just thought – I’m in your room. I – I’m sorry. I’ll go.” He stepped forwards, towards the door, face burning red. Martin had never seen him blush before.

 

“Wait.” He reached to stop Douglas, intending to catch his hand, but Douglas’ move resulted in a misdirection, and Martin went rapidly scarlet as instead he brushed Douglas’ crotch. “Oh my God – I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to –“ He blinked. Douglas had gone stock still, and unwillingly, Martin’s eyes shot downwards, to where Douglas was clearly tenting out his trousers. Martin boggled. “Douglas – you’re –“

 

“Yes, yes, alright, I’m sorry, I’d be grateful if – grateful if you could just _forget_ this –“

 

How odd. Martin had never seen Douglas Richardson flustered, trying to run away as fast as he could….

 

The captain succeeded in grabbing Douglas’ arm this time. “ _Wait_.” Douglas stared at the floor, evidently utterly humiliated. “You like me? _You_ like _me?_ ”

 

Douglas shrugged. “Given what you just –“ he swallowed – “felt – a denial seems futile.”

 

“But… I like you!”

 

Douglas’ head snapped up. “You do?”

 

Martin nodded feverishly, couldn’t add anything, his pulse hammering in his ears. Douglas took a step, and suddenly he was closer to Martin than he’d ever been before.

 

“I like you, Martin Crieff.” Douglas shook his head, his blush fading. “Even if you’ve been confused by what’s gone on tonight…. adorably confused...” He bent his head, held Martin’s gaze, and suddenly his groin was nudging Martin’s hip and Martin couldn’t breathe.

 

“I – I –“ he managed, but gave up on words, took courage into his hands, and kissed Douglas again instead, feeling the FO’s hand reaching to grip his waist before sliding down and round and –

 

“ _Ah_ ,” Martin gasped, pressing forwards into Douglas’ groping hand.

 

“I see you’re pitching a camp of your own here, Captain.” Douglas’ sinfully attractive voice was rumbling in his ear, and Martin bucked and twisted and thought he might die from the shock and the pleasure of it.

 

He pulled himself together. “Oh, shut up.” He shoved at Douglas, and suddenly they were stumbling towards the futon. “No more words. Not now. Not –“ 

 

And the rest of his sentence was swallowed up between them, the expression of it suddenly _entirely_ unnecessary.


	25. Charger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the sixth fandot creativity night - the prompt was "charger cable".

Arthur arrived at the airfield one morning to find everyone in a bad mood. Which was odd, because the reason he was late was that he’d stopped to buy ice creams to share around. He’d expected universal cries of delight when he walked into the portacabin holding four Flake 99s aloft – not the faces ranging from fuming (Carolyn) to anxious (Martin) to irritable (Douglas).

 

“What’s the matter?” he asked, trying to hand the cones out, only to be waved away by every single member of the crew. _Oh well. If I can eat seven quiches…_ He set about demolishing the ice creams.

 

“GERTI’s not working, dear heart,” his Mum said, crossly. “And the engineer is stuck in traffic, and meanwhile our client is due to arrive any moment.”

 

“One of Mr – Mr – the Russian boat man’s customers?”

 

“Yes.” Douglas frowned. He and Mum had fought, then. That was his at-odds-with-Carolyn-face.

 

“Oh dear.” Arthur walked quickly to the window and looked out onto the apron. “Can’t we fix her? What’s the matter?”

 

Martin snorted. “ _We_ can’t fix her. We’re not qualified.”

 

“Her battery’s not working, Arthur.” Douglas’ voice was heavy. Arthur was stunned. If Douglas wasn’t pretending not to care, things _must_ be serious.

 

“Oh no!” He sucked a dripping dribble from one of the cones with a loud slurp as he pondered the situation. “Can’t we… can’t we… I don’t know, doesn’t one of the mechanics have a spare charger cable in one of the sheds?” He turned to meet their stares, and shrugged. “It’s what I try when my phone’s not working.”

 

Martin shook his head. “GERTI’s a bit more complicated than your Nokia 3330, Arthur.”

 

“No, no, wait.” Douglas raised a hand. “Maybe Arthur’s right.” He stood up. “Carolyn, didn’t you say George was tinkering with his Cessna over the weekend?”

 

“Ye-es,” she replied, slowly. “But I don’t see what that’s got to do with –“

 

“I’ll be back,” Douglas interrupted, and he was off and running.

 

“Was it something I said?” Arthur asked, ignoring a sticky droplet of ice cream now sliding down his wrist.

 

His mother, to his amazement, no longer looked as if she was furious. “It was.”

 

“Oh no!”

 

Martin looked intrigued as well, though. “No, Arthur. You – you _might_ have done well…”

 

“Might I?” Arthur was surprised, but accepted it. “Oh good.”

 

* * *

 

 

Twenty minutes later, they were all surrounding GERTI. “Is it even possible to jump-start an aeroplane?” Carolyn asked the stocky George, who was wiping his hands on an oily rag.

 

He nodded. “Should be. Same principle as a car – just have to have the right cables.”

 

Douglas reappeared from GERTI’s inner workings, trailing the wires over to George’s plane. “And George did,” he said, happily. “Let’s try it.”

 

It took a couple of false starts, but with a cough and a roar and to shouts of victory from the assembled staff, GERTI’s engines at last spun into action – just as their client and their engineer both arrived at once.

 

“Oh,” said the posh Russian woman. She smiled at Arthur as she walked over to them. “Do you always cheer the start of the engines?” The cables were fortunately concealed from her view by GERTI’s bulk, and Arthur sensed Douglas hastening off to detach them.

 

 _Lie. Do it well_. “Yes,” he said, and turned bright red. Luckily his Mum – _brilliant Mum_ – was there to save him.

 

She took the lady’s arm, and led her back to the portacabin. “Quaint English tradition, you know,” she said, her voice fading as she went. “Now, just a few forms to fill in….”

 

Martin had finished directing the engineer to check GERTI over, and he already looked to be scratching his head and pronouncing himself satisfied after a brief poke about. 

 

“Arthur?” Martin said, seriously.

 

“Yes?” Arthur was nervous. Skip was always at his most… captain-ish when GERTI had mechanical trouble.

 

Martin scrutinised him, but then his face broke into a warm smile. “You saved the day.”

 

“I did?”

 

“You did.”

 

“Oh.” Arthur beamed. “Brilliant!”


	26. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the sixth fandot creativity night - the prompt was "I challenge you to a _______ contest!"

“You spilled my drink!”

 

“Oh, come on, Douglas!” Martin put his hands on his hips. “You’re the one that crashed into me!”

 

“I did not!” Douglas drew himself up to his full six feet two inches, staring haughtily down at Martin. “I would never dance so clumsily as to make contact with someone else on the floor – unless it was deliberate, of course,” he leered, winking laviciously at Martin for the joy of making him blush and get flustered.

 

“I still say it was you that bumped me,” Martin retorted, his ears reddening. “I wasn’t dancing anywhere near you.”

 

“Oh, _dancing_ – is that what you call it?” Douglas raised an eyebrow, adopting a look of polite perplexity.

 

“ _Yes_.” Martin glared. “It was your idea to come out to this stupid nightclub – I didn’t want anything to do with it.”

 

Douglas shrugged. “We’re staying in Soho. What else is there to do of an evening?” He reached out a hand and tugged Martin towards him. “Seeing as you rejected my plans to… stay in.” He began to run a hand down the captain’s chest, but Martin batted him away grumpily.

 

“Now my drink’s spilt too.” He wiped his soggy wrist down Douglas’ shirtfront. “You did that on purpose.”

 

“Did not!” Douglas was indignant.

 

“Did too!”

 

“What’s going on?” Arthur had danced back from the bar, waving to separate the two of them, looking anxiously between their fractious faces.

 

“ _He_ spilled my drink!” the two pilots chorused in perfect unison. “On purpose!” Douglas added, angrily.

 

“Did not!”

 

“Whoa, whoa.” Arthur held the captain back.

 

“That does it. I dance far too skilfully to have accidentally bumped you.” Douglas set his half-empty glass down.

 

“So do I!” Martin fumed. “I challenge you to a dancing contest! Then we can see who’s telling the truth!”

 

Douglas gaped for a moment, then slammed his jaw shut. “Fine! I accept.”

 

“And Arthur can be the judge.” Martin nodded definitively. “He’s impartial.”

 

Douglas looked askance. “Arthur?” He leaned in to whisper to Martin, trying to ignore the alluring smell of his cologne. “The inventor of the Belgian Tango?”

 

“Um.” Martin wavered for a moment, considering, but it was too late. Arthur was already hopping with excitement.

 

“Yes! Off you go then, chaps – for the duration of the next song! I’ll give you both scores in my head and work out the winner!”

 

Martin shrugged, looking back at the FO. “Yes. Arthur.”

 

“Fine.” Douglas’ eyes narrowed. “You’re on.”

 

* * *

  

An hour later, sweaty and red-faced, Martin and Douglas stumbled back into their shared hotel room, as one falling onto the bed.

 

Martin rolled over and gripped Douglas’ hip. “I still say I was better.”

 

Douglas snorted, sliding nearer to him. “I was the clear winner.”

 

“Not according to Arthur!” Martin pushed him onto his back.

 

“Hmph. I deeply disagree with his ruling,” Douglas said, raising his hands to begin unbuttoning Martin’s damp shirt.

 

“A tie _is_ ludicrous.”

 

“I’ll never wear one again.” Douglas rapidly shed his, then ran his hands over Martin’s exposed stomach to make him shiver.

 

Martin snorted. “You know what I mean. The fact that our resident steward said it was a draw.”

 

“That’s not what bothered me,” Douglas commented, tugging Martin firmly on top of him, feeling the captain beginning to nose kisses into his neck. “It’s the fact he said we were equally _bad_.”

 

“Unforgiveable.” Martin wriggled rhythmically.

 

“How dare he.” Douglas rocked up to meet his squirms.

 

“We’ll show him.”

 

“Next time.”

 

Arthur was rather forgotten, after that.


	27. Height

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The paramountly wonderful tracionn asked me to fill a prompt on Tumblr, as follows: “You’re afraid that you’ll lose me in big crowds so you always hold my hand but now you just hold my hand when there’s only, like, five people around and I’m getting very suspicious…”
> 
> I decided it merited a 5+1 set of drabbles - except the last one is a double-drabble as it got away from me. So here are 5 x 100 words and a +1 that’s 200 words. Five times Douglas took Martin’s hand - and one time Martin held Douglas’.

1. 

 

“Wow, chaps.” Arthur’s eyes were like saucers. “Did you know Brazil got this _busy_?” 

 

Douglas grinned delightedly as he worked his way forwards into the throng of brightly-coloured bodies. “It’s Carnival, Arthur! Of course it’s _busy_.” 

 

“Wait!” Martin was accidentally barged from behind and he stumbled into Douglas. “We’ll get separated – you know monkey-face here gets lost in Fitton, let alone Rio –“ 

 

“Stop fretting!” Douglas reached and grabbed his hand, body swaying with the music. “We’ll stick together!” He led Martin deeper into the street party, and Martin laughed in spite of himself, Douglas’ warmth radiating into his palm. 

 

2. 

 

“Get – out –of – the way!” Martin shoved his way through the mob of passengers blocking the corridor to GERTI’s gate.  

 

“Use your elbows!” Douglas called, weaving miraculously into a gap a stocky fifty-something year old first officer shouldn’t have been able to slide through.  

 

“I – am!” grunted Martin, crossly, earning himself a retaliatory jab from the umbrella of one of the queuing travellers. He was falling further behind, and he was too short to see Douglas, and they had to take off – 

 

“Oh, come _here_.” Suddenly Douglas was next him, grabbing his hand, and all Martin could do was follow. 

 

3. 

 

“I don’t even really want to _see_ this film,” Martin complained, buffeted from all sides by the mass of people streaming into the cinema.  

 

“Come on, we promised Arthur…” Douglas sounded just as half-hearted.  

 

“How’s he even going to find us?” Martin scanned the crowds. Someone shoved between him and Douglas to get to the box office and he stumbled, nearly falling over. 

 

“Hey!” Douglas’ indignation on his behalf was unexpected – but not as unexpected as the sudden broad hand encompassing his own, tugging him upright again. 

 

“Err – thanks.” Martin glanced up, flushing. _But - surely Douglas isn’t blushing too?_

 

4\.  

 

A month passed, and Martin almost forgot the odd swooping feeling he’d experienced as Douglas saved him from falling over. Douglas was being unusually formal with him and even seemed to be deferring to his decisions - sometimes. In the pleasure at this unlooked-for turn of events, Martin had nearly stopped thinking about Douglas’ hand in his. 

 

Until, in Moldova, they walked smack into a political protest. Suddenly they were hemmed in, angry shouts and bullying bodies trying to jerk them apart. Douglas reached for him, and Martin responded without a second thought. “I’m here,” Douglas said, and Martin felt safe. 

 

5. 

 

“It’s late.” Martin felt satisfactorily full – for once with something other than pasta. Douglas had treated him to tapas in Paris and they were trying to find the Metro to get back to their hotel. 

 

“Oh, come now, you’ll still get the recommended rest,” Douglas grinned, nudging him as they stepped into the station. “Hmm. Busy.” Plenty of people were making their way home, but Martin could see clear space between them. 

 

“Looks fine to – oh!” Martin jumped. Douglas – apropos of nothing – had taken his hand again. He glanced sideways - Douglas was pink. Martin hesitated, but didn’t let go. 

 

+1. 

 

They got off the Metro at their stop, having been separated by the ticket barriers, and walked slowly up the dark street towards their accommodation. It was chilly, and a light drizzle had begun to fall, yet neither of them seemed to want to hurry. 

 

“Thanks for a lovely meal,” Martin said, softly. Douglas hadn’t let him pay. 

 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Douglas said, an undercurrent of tension to his voice. 

 

 _He feels it too_. Martin stopped under a streetlight, the glare picking out the silver lances of rain. “Wait.” 

 

“What?” Douglas turned. 

 

Martin reached out, caught his hand. “There’s no one here.” 

 

Douglas’ palm flexed in his. “So what?” 

 

“So… I’m… trying not… to lose you.” Martin summoned all his courage and tugged Douglas towards him. He twisted their hands into a steeple, folded his fingers till they were interlaced through Douglas’. “I don’t want to lose you.” 

 

“Martin…” Douglas was close to him now, so close, staring down at him. “You can’t – can’t feel -“ 

 

“But I do.” Martin leant up, his free hand twining into Douglas’ hair, and met him in a kiss. Douglas’ other palm slid over his, and Martin never wanted their hands to part again.


	28. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt for the eighth fandot creativity night - "Stars and/or Masquerade".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this chapter carries an 'M' rating for non-explicit sexytimes.

“So… this was… nice.” Martin flushed. God, could he get more clichéd? The number of times Douglas must have heard that line as a date drew to a close – in fact, hadn’t he said it himself after their second date? Oh God…

 

But Douglas was smiling. “I enjoyed it too.”

 

Martin collected his scattered thoughts desperately. “Didn’t think musicals would be your thing.”

 

“No, but  _Phantom_  has just enough opera in to keep me interested.”

 

They were still holding hands, Martin pondered, dizzily. He wasn’t sure how it could be possible. Douglas wasn’t standing up from his sofa yet, wasn’t hurrying him out of the door. “Um… I should go, then?” he ventured, as Douglas leant to switch off the DVD player.

 

Douglas froze for a moment, then turned back to him. “You… don’t have to,” he said, and  _good grief,_ was that what an uncertain Douglas looked like?

 

“I, I, I guess I could stay a bit longer?” Martin fiddled with his fingers, looking awkwardly into his lap. How could he still feel such electric nervousness on their sixth date, he wondered, _how_?!

 

“No.” Douglas had slid closer to him.

 

“No?” He looked up, heart beating wildly in his chest. _What did I do wrong?_

 

“No.” Douglas was smiling, just a little. “Stay. Not a bit longer. Just… stay.”

 

“Oh.  _Oh_.” Martin blinked, and then – then Douglas’ mouth was on his, and  _Christ_  they’d done this before, and it had been lovely, but it hadn’t been leading anywhere, and now it was and he was trying to focus on kissing back but analysing everything and –

 

“Martin.” Douglas leant back, running a soothing hand down his neck. “Stop panicking.”

 

“I’m not panicking! I’m fine. Fine. Fine. Absolutely fine…. Fine.”

 

Douglas eyed him, and Martin groaned inwardly. But – _thank goodness_  – Douglas just smiled again, and leant back in. “Relax,” the FO breathed. “I won’t do anything you don’t want,” and kissed him again.

 

“Want – everything –“ Martin squeaked, muffled, into Douglas’ mouth.

 

“What was that?” Douglas tilted his chin, rubbed his lip, and then Martin was embarrassed because he realised he’d bitten him a little.

 

“Sorry.” He planted an apologetic kiss there, shyly. “I said…” It was a good job it was dark. He knew his ears would be scarlet. “I – I want… everything…”

 

“You do, do you?” Douglas’ voice was dark, and smooth, and Martin had a sudden flash of molasses, or treacle tart, could almost taste the sweetness on his tongue. Douglas’ thigh pressed into his, and kisses were being nosed into his neck, which he arched, wanting more of the warmth, more soft nuzzles because that, really, was glorious. “Rascal,” Douglas whispered.

 

Martin’s hands were moving –  _did I give them permission to move?_  – it didn’t matter, because they slid up Douglas’ smooth back and tangled in his hair and the little ‘ _mmph’_  noise that Douglas made – well, that was good, Martin very much wanted to hear that again….

 

Douglas’ own hands were moving, too, downwards… absolutely towards where Martin wanted them to be – _no, don’t stop at my navel, not just there –_  “Keep going,” he blurted, and blushed at his boldness.

 

“Oh, I will.” It was Martin’s favourite tone, that one – one of genuine warm amusement, that always meant that he’d particularly entertained his FO for some reason. “If you do the same.”

 

“Keen, are we?” He was teasing Douglas. He hadn’t long known that he could tease Douglas.

 

“You have…  _no_  idea.”

 

Well, he wouldn’t get much more honest encouragement than that from someone like his ever-composed first officer… the hungriness in the bald statement made his stomach twist, and Lord, he was uncomfortable in his trousers now – and  _yes_  Douglas felt just as hard as Martin was himself when he found Douglas' crotch at last – Martin almost didn’t believe it – but then he had no further time to doubt, because everything was building, the heat, their breathing, sweet friction in the quiet room –

 

And all of a sudden – too soon,  _can’t wait_  – Douglas was crying out, and swearing, and Martin broke with bliss and all he could see were stars. Beautiful stars, and Douglas, clutched tight in his arms.


	29. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt for the eighth fandot creativity night - the prompt was "comfort".

The first thing Martin knew about Douglas being home was when his partner nearly knocked him over by hugging him fiercely from behind.

 

“Oof!” Martin gasped, before covering Douglas’ hands with his. “You’re back,” he observed, pointlessly, twisting to hug him from the front.

 

“Your perspicacity never ceases to amaze me,” Douglas commented, but the waspishness of the remark was spoilt by its being uttered straight into Martin’s pullover. Douglas clutched doggedly onto the captain, and then buried his head even further into his chest, having to stoop to do so.

 

Martin stroked Douglas’ back, thoughtfully. “Didn’t go well then?”

 

“She’s a teenager. Of  _course_ it didn’t.” Douglas’ huge sigh ruffled Martin’s hair as he looked up. “I took her away from seeing her _boyfriend_ , apparently. She wasn’t going to forgive me for that.”

 

“Come here.” Martin lifted the FO's chin with a finger to look into his lover’s stormy eyes. “I’m sorry Verity was grumpy.” He pecked a kiss to Douglas’ forehead. “I’m sorry she didn’t appreciate you driving all that way today.” He kissed his nose. “I’m sorry she made you think she didn’t want to see you.” He kissed Douglas properly, this time, slowly, lips moving in a well-rehearsed pattern that spread warmth through them both.

 

When they broke apart, Martin smiled, tentatively. “ _I_  want to see you,” he whispered. “I think you’re… marvellous.”

 

“Of course I am.” Douglas sniffed dismissively, but there was humour dancing in his eyes, now.

 

“Exactly.” Martin kissed him again. “So come and cuddle me on the sofa, and I’ll make sure that this day isn’t a total write-off.”

 

Douglas grinned, reluctantly, misery disappearing. “How could I possibly refuse such an offer?”

 

They fell on to the settee together, and it was a long time before they emerged, happily, back into the real world.


	30. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from the eighth fandot creativity night, "Storm".

They were six hundred miles off the coast of Japan when they had to fly right into it. A tropical storm the like of which Martin had never experienced, and by the whiteness of Douglas’ knuckles around the yoke, Martin guessed his FO probably hadn’t flown in such conditions before, either. Frustratingly, the intercom to the galley had broken on their outbound flight; and now the seatbelt signs weren’t working, to crown everything.

 

“For God’s sake… now, of all times…” Martin muttered under his breath. He glanced over at Douglas, who was wrestling to keep them level. “I’ll check they’re strapped in, back there,” he said, and it was a sign of Douglas’ concentration that he didn’t make a joke – he just nodded determinedly and remained focused on the instruments.

 

Martin unbuckled, and swayed out of the cockpit. “Carolyn? Arthur?”

 

“We’re back here, Skip!” Arthur waved from the front row, and Martin thanked his stars there weren’t any passengers on board.

 

“What on earth are you doing to my plane, Martin?” Carolyn asked through gritted teeth, her hands clamped round the armrests as GERTI dipped and rumbled like a ship in a typhoon.

 

“Tropical storm, actually,” he retorted defensively, clinging to the counter in the galley.

 

“Get us down in one piece.”

 

“We’re trying.” The glances the two of them exchanged were as grim as he could ever remember, but Arthur, at least, seemed unaffected.

 

“It’s a bit like a rollercoaster, isn’t it?” Arthur leant into another yaw sideways. “Whee!” A mildly worried look crossed his face. “Do you think the portacabin roof is leaking again?”

 

“We’re halfway round the world from Fitton, Arthur –“

 

Martin interrupted Carolyn. He had to get back to the flight deck. “You two – stay buckled up till you hear otherwise, alright?”

 

“Of course!” Arthur’s promise was eagerly given, and even Carolyn nodded, her eyes closed.

 

“Good. I’m going back to help D-“

 

_BANG._

GERTI abruptly dropped like a stone, a massive air pocket opening up beneath them. Martin had a dizzying glimpse of the aisle disappearing as the floor rudely abandoned his feet, then with a slam his head met the roof, and he knew no more.

 

* * *

 

“Skip…? Skip?”

 

“Stop  _poking_  him, Arthur.”

 

“Wh –“ he groaned, a fierce ache slicing into his head. He winced, and tried to raise a hand to touch his temple, but it felt like moving in a lake of gelatinous goo. “What’s goin’on?” he slurred.

 

“Oh. Oh,  _Skip_!”

 

“Don’t move, Martin.” Thank goodness, Douglas’ voice. Douglas was sane. He’d sort this out.

 

“Where am I?”

 

“A tiny Japanese island called Kikai. We think.” Carolyn was alright too, thank the stars – the stars that were blinking in front of his eyes, _that's everyone accounted for..._  

 

He moaned again, muzzily. “What – happened?”

 

“We hit turbulence! You flew into the air! Well, you were already flying in the air, but this was  _up_  instead of  _forwards_ , except I suppose we were actually falling down it’s just that you got left behind –“

 

“Arthur. Shut. Up.” Douglas’ voice was beyond exhausted, straying into  _frantically worried_  with a stop to pick up  _irritated_  on the way as well.

 

“Right. Yes. Sorry.”

 

“How are you feeling, Martin? We’ve radioed the ground crew for a medic, an ambulance if they have one – I’ve rarely seen such a speck of an airfield.” Douglas patted his arm – at least, Martin assumed it was Douglas. He warily tried blinking open his eyes again, but had to shut them straight away as it only increased the pain in his forehead.

 

“Head hurts… but OK.” He sat up abruptly, which caused a cry of alarm from Carolyn and a lurch of black nausea in his gut. “GERTI? Is GERTI alright?”

 

“The plane’s absolutely fine, Captain. I was piloting her – was there ever any doubt that she would be?” Douglas didn’t quite pull off his usual smugness – the anxiety rather ruined it – but Martin relaxed. If Douglas was boasting, then everything would be alright.

 

“Medic!” an unfamiliar, accented voice called from GERTI’s doorway, and Martin sighed in relief.

 

“You’ll be fine, Skip.” Arthur spoke as unfamiliar hands began examining him.

 

“Course I will. I’m – I’m the captain.” A rush of worry nearly undid him, though. “Was away from my post –“

 

“Making sure we were safe.” Carolyn’s crisp tones were warm, thank God –

 

“You did fine.” Oh. Good. If even Douglas approved, it must be OK. “Just don’t ever send me frantic by having to fly with you injured where I can’t get to you again!” The words were uttered in a furious flurry, uncharacteristic fright throbbing in them.

 

The clattering noise of Douglas stomping off, the heavy sigh of relief - _or was that rage? -_  that he’d given as he left meant Martin jerked in shock. “Sorry,” he said, weakly, trying to call after him, and Arthur’s hand gripped his in reassurance.

 

“Don’t fret, Skip. He was just really scared for you.”

 

“But I’m fine.”

 

“We know.” Carolyn again. “But we weren’t sure, for a while…”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Yes, Martin. Of course you are.”

 

The medics were tugging him – “Hospital, just for a check up,” one of them said, and he was too groggy to resist.

 

Before they left, though, he twitched in surprise as Douglas’ voice whispered in his ear, a flash of warmth as Douglas took his hand. “Come back soon, you hear?”

 

“I promise.” Sleep was sliding over him. “Promise…”

 

“Good.” He’d never have imagined Douglas could sound so weak with relief over  _him_ , of all people. Him. Goodness.

 

Martin slept.


	31. Bag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For starrysummer-nights, who prompted me to write the first time things went wrong during sex for Martin and Douglas - be warned, this chapter is M-rated.

Douglas had never been more turned on in his life. He kicked the door shut behind him and spun round, eyes flashing, to see Martin backing towards the bed, head submissively bowed, trembling with suppressed excitement. Douglas felt fire flash through his belly at the vision before him, and he prowled forwards, dropping the bag he’d brought over to Martin’s house on the ground – he’d get to  _that_  later.

 

“Strip,” he ordered, making the plosive pop at the end of the word. Martin’s shaking fingers moved instantly to his shirt buttons and within moments he stood before Douglas, naked and plainly just as aroused as his new dom was.

 

Douglas circled him, heightening the crackling anticipation between them. “Very nice,” he said, approvingly, as he moved back to stand in front of Martin again. “You’re stunning, you know.” His voice was soft, but still with that note of command that he’d only so recently learned left Martin incoherent with arousal – in the bedroom, at least. Douglas would never dream of trying such a tone on the flight deck.

 

“Thank you, sir…” Martin stared at the carpet, but Douglas lifted his chin with a curled finger.

 

“Now undress me,” he commanded, but first captured Martin’s mouth in a kiss, feeling Martin’s hands fumbling to unbuckle his belt. “That’s it,” he groaned. “Good boy.”

 

Martin stepped back as soon as he’d divested Douglas of his clothing. “On the bed for me.” Douglas went to pick up the bag he’d ditched, feeling his sub’s eyes tracking him avidly. He strolled slowly back to Martin’s futon, his erection bobbing in front of him; unable to focus on anything but the sight of the captain laid out like a feast for him.

 

“You’ve been such a good boy for me, the last few times, since we got together, haven’t you?” he asked. Martin nodded tremulously. “ _Such_  a good boy…” Douglas purred. “Taking it all so beautifully.” He ran a possessive hand up the line of Martin’s abdominal musculature. “You’ve earned your reward.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Martin breathed, irises nearly all swallowed up by dilated, dark pupils.

 

Conscious of a sense of theatre, Douglas dropped the bag dramatically next to Martin’s splayed out figure. “I brought my toys…” he growled. “The ones I’ve been describing to you.” He grinned, sharkily. “You’re not going to know what’s hit you.” His eyebrow quirked. “Literally.”

 

Martin shuddered, closing his eyes and biting his lip, and Douglas clenched a hand at his hip in sheer temptation. Leaning forward, he unzipped the bag, the sound loud in the otherwise silent room. He reached inside.

 

There was a long, long pause.

 

At last, Martin peeked an eye open, clearly not sure what he was supposed to be doing. “M-master?” he stammered, glancing up at Douglas, whose shoulders were hunched and expression oddly frozen. “Sir?”

 

At the second question, Douglas’ head snapped up, and he had to smile in spite of himself – clearly surprising Martin. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Stop.”

 

Martin didn’t reply, but reached out a hand to cover Douglas’. It was a silent  _‘are you ok?’_

 

Douglas’ shoulders shook, and Martin’s fingers tightened on his. Douglas waved his other hand, and gave away that he was laughing.

 

Martin sat bolt upright, erection melting away faster than ice in the desert. “What?” He covered himself protectively, and Douglas suddenly realised that the captain thought that Douglas was laughing at him.

 

“No!” He clutched at Martin, stopped him fleeing. “It’s not – it’s not you, you gorgeous thing.” His eyes were warm, and full of resigned amusement. “It’s me.”

 

“You don’t want to -?”

 

“I want to –  _God,_  I want to.” And there was the hint of the growl in Douglas’ voice again that was guaranteed to make Martin go wibbly. “I just – I’ve  _brought the wrong bag_.”

 

“You – you what?” Martin leant up to look.

 

“It’s Emily’s ballet things.”

 

“Oh.  _Oh_.” Martin glanced up, befuddled.

 

“They’re both black roly-poly bags – I thought – I’m sorry. I should have checked.” Douglas sounded genuinely contrite, and reached to hug Martin. “Sorry. I’ve rather ruined the mood, haven’t I? Can we try again tomorrow?”

 

“Of course,” Martin chuckled, drawing Douglas into a warm hug, back on equal ground again. “Come under the covers, you clot.”

 

Douglas acquiesced and climbed warmly in beside him, cuddling him close. At length, Martin spoke again.

 

“Douglas?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“Um – this doesn’t mean that – err… Emily hasn’t gone off to her Mum’s with your dom toybox by mistake, has she?”

 

“Oh  _God_ , no.” Douglas clung to him tighter, in clear horror at the thought. “Don’t worry. My real bag is definitely still in my wardrobe.”

 

“Thank goodness for that.” Martin sighed with relief.

 

“I’ll say.” Douglas kissed his head, repentantly. “Tomorrow,” he promised, again, and Martin curled nearer into him, adoration filling them both.


	32. Cake

“What on earth are you doing, Martin?” Carl yawned as he leant on the kitchen door frame.

 

Martin looked up, clearly startled. “Sorry - did I wake you?” He scratched his head distractedly, and Carl tried not to notice the flex of his boyfriend’s chest as his arm moved. It wasn’t often that Martin wandered around just in his boxers, and Carl made a mental note to try and encourage it more often. “I was trying to be quiet.” Martin looked disconsolate, and Carl quickly stepped forward to hug him.

 

“It’s fine. I just wondered where you’d gone at 2am, that’s all.” He stroked Martin’s back, feeling the bump of his vertebrae with a fingertip. “I’ve missed you all the time you were away this week - I was looking forward to waking up next to you at last in the morning, and then I found you’d abandoned me…” He drew back, pouting teasingly.

 

Martin laughed, and caught Carl’s jutting lip between finger and thumb before leaning to kiss him. “Jet lag,” he explained.

 

Carl groaned. “I was afraid of that.” He kissed Martin’s cheek. “But what are you doing in the kitchen?”

 

Blushing, Martin said “I’m hungry. And I’ve just discovered you seem to have eaten every scrap of food that  _I_ laid in before I flew to LA on Monday.” Though his tone was accusatory, mischief danced in his eyes. “So I know perfectly well that the rule to beat jet lag is to only eat at the times appropriate for the zone you’re in - but you are not allowed to say one word about it, you hear?” He grinned, and looped an arm round the small of Carl’s back to bring them closer together. “We’re both at fault.”

 

“Agreed.” Carl pecked him on the nose. “I just have one solution to suggest…” He slipped free of Martin’s hug and rummaged in the cupboard, easily finding the items he needed. “Here - here… and… hmmm… aha, here.” 

 

Martin watched, curiously. “Flour - sugar… eggs… and margarine?”

 

Grinning, Carl nodded. “Let’s bake.”

 

“Bake what?” Martin looked intrigued.

 

“Victoria Sponge?” Carl retrieved a mixing bowl. “I can make that from memory.”

 

“Since when have you been such a keen home economist?” Martin picked up the eggs and made to crack them, but Carl snatched the box back.

 

“We need those - to weigh everything else against.” He poked Martin’s nose teasingly. “You can sift the flour - here.” He watched as Martin - over-eager to do things quickly as always - sent a cloud of white dust into the air with a  _whumpf_ of squeezed packet. Carl chuckled. “You look good with grey hair… Grandpa.”

 

“At least  _my_  grey hairs aren’t real,” Martin batted back indignantly, which earned him a slap on the arse. “Hey!”

 

“Concentrate, you.” Carl grinned roguishly. “Whatever would Delia say?”

 

After twenty minutes with them both becoming messier and messier as ingredients missed the bowl and whisks weren’t switched off in time and an egg hit the floor, they finally had the mixture ready for the oven. Carl shoved the two tins in, then stood back with a satisfied nod. It was only when he looked up that he realised Martin was scrutinising him with a hungry expression, and somehow Carl suspected it had little to do with the food they’d been preparing. “What?” he asked.

 

Martin swallowed. “You have a handprint… here.” He indicated Carl’s black pyjama t-shirt. 

 

Carl looked down to see that he had indeed left a perfect impression of his palm in flour, just over his nipple. He glanced up. “So?”

 

“So… that shirt had better come off.” Martin licked his lower lip, and stepped to slide his hands up Carl’s hips.

 

“Yeah?” Carl’s mouth had gone suddenly dry. “Stick it in the wash for me, then.”

 

“Bossy, bossy…” Martin slipped the shirt over his head, though, and chucked it sideways into the open laundry machine.

 

“I am an air traffic  _controller_ ,” Carl reminded him, throatily.

 

“And I’m the -”

 

“Captain,” they said in unison, which led to laughter and a shared kiss that brought their bodies together in a way that was entirely the opposite of unpleasant… and it was only when the smoke alarm went off, an hour later, that they both flung themselves off the couch with a far-too-late recollection of the cake that had induced them to entwine themselves there in the first place.


	33. Sunburn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from the ninth fandot creativity night - "Sunburn".
> 
> Note this chapter is rated E for explicit content.

“Ow, owow ow…” Douglas yowled as Martin gently peeled his shirt off his back.

 

“Oh, come on sweetheart, it can’t be that bad…” Martin hissed through his teeth, though, as he revealed the scarlet skin beneath. “Oh.”

 

“You see?” Douglas turned round to stare accusingly. “I told you it wasn’t pretty.”

 

“Hmm.” Martin took Douglas’ elbow and urged him to lie flat on his stomach on the bed. As he reached for the moisturising lotion, he tutted. “Why on earth did you think you could get away with falling asleep, in our garden, on the hottest day of the year, in full sunlight?” He put a big squirt of the liquid in an X shape across Douglas’ back, making the FO flinch at the chill.

 

“I didn’t think I could  _get away with it,_ ” Douglas protested, pausing to swear as Martin began to massage the cream into his sore skin. “I was exhausted. I dropped off. And it’s Fitton, not Cancun,” he grumbled, accusingly.

 

“Honestly, I leave you for one day to go and visit Mum,” Martin mock-chastised.

 

“Oh, shut up.” Douglas pillowed his head on his arms. “Mmm,” he moaned after a minute, as Martin continued stroking the cooling salve into his thirsty shoulders. “Feels nice.”

 

Martin glanced up. “It should. You’re still roasting from this burn.” He tapped Douglas to roll over to his side, so he could get at his flank. “You haven’t got a headache, have you?”  He frowned when Douglas didn’t move, and tapped him again. “Douglas?”

 

“I’m awake.” Douglas’ voice was muffled, but he didn’t turn over.

 

“Come on, I need to get at the side of you.” Martin tapped his toe impatiently. “What’s the matter?”

 

“Um.” Douglas sounded… embarrassed. Slowly, he rolled over, and Martin took a step back.

 

“Oh. I see.” There was a definite tease in his voice, now.

 

“Shush.” Douglas leant to prod him. “I can’t help it.”

 

Martin sniggered, and very slowly reached to stroke a finger up the prominent bulge in Douglas’ pants, making the FO shudder. “The sunburn’s just a ruse, I see now…”

 

“It isn’t! It’s really sore-auuuugh….” Douglas’ words trailed into a groan as Martin slid a slippery hand inside his boxers to stroke him more directly.

 

“Of course it is.” Martin set the bottle aside with a grin. “And I’m about to make you forget all about it.”

 

“Forget about what?” Douglas joked, hoarsely. He reached to tug Martin’s hip towards him, but Martin resisted.

 

“Nuh-uh.” Martin moved his hand more speedily, enjoying the way Douglas’ eyes fluttered involuntarily closed. “I’m concentrating.”

 

“M-me too –“ Douglas gasped, and in no time at all Martin’s heart leapt as Douglas bucked and created a whole new pattern of white streaks on his stomach for Martin to smooth lasciviously into his tender skin.

 

“That's better,” he murmured, as Douglas’ heaving chest slowed. “Good boy.” He slid on to the bed, and grinned as he felt Douglas lean floppily over him for the after-sun.


	34. Otter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from the ninth fandot creativity night: "It's a good thing..."

Carolyn knew something was afoot the moment she stepped on to the plane – she’d had years of practice after all. There was muffled whispering coming from the cockpit, and as she prowled towards the pointy end, Martin (apparently on sentry duty) poked his head out and at the sight of her approach whipped it back into the flight deck with an anguished expression on his face. Her jaw tightened.

 

“Martin, what on earth –“ she began, thrusting her way through the small door. “Wh – Arthur, what are you doing here?”

 

Arthur went instantly purple, leaping upright and shoving something behind his back, poking the seated Douglas in his face. “Nothing, nothing…”

 

Martin tutted, but Carolyn ignored him. “Arthur.” She glared implacably. “Show it to me. Whatever it is.”

 

“Err, Carolyn…”

 

“Shut up, Douglas.”

 

Douglas shrugged, and pushed Arthur forward a step. “Go on, then.”

 

Martin made a funny noise in his throat. “I just want you to know that this has absolutely nothing to do with me –“

 

“Noted.” Carolyn held out her hands to her fidgeting son, and he sighed.

 

“Fine. Here.” He brought round a shoebox, of all things, missing its lid.

 

Carolyn looked inside, and staggered back, choking a cry of surprise. “What?!” For a horrible moment, she was reminded of the occasion that Snoopadoop had brought home a half-dead brown rat – that was the impression that the twitching bundle of fur in the box gave at first glance.

 

“It’s alright, Mum!” Arthur sounded pleading.

 

“What – what is that…  _thing_ , in there?” she hissed, staring angrily at Douglas as though it were his fault.

 

“It’s a good  _thing_ , Mum!”

 

“Shut up, Arthur.” She reached round the box to poke Douglas’ shoulder. “What is it?”

 

Douglas cleared his throat. “Our resident nature expert seems to have decided that it’s a baby otter.”

 

Carolyn shook her head and stared into the box again. The… thing… had glittering eyes and was squeaking a bit. “That is not an otter, Arthur.”

 

“And even if it were, you know my position on flying with live otters in the flight deck,” Martin added, firmly. She kicked his shin, ignoring the indignant ‘ _ow_!’

 

“I think it’s actually a vole. Or possibly a shrew.” Douglas was looking at the creature thoughtfully where it wriggled, and Carolyn struggled not to hit him.

 

She turned back to Arthur instead. “Where did you find it?”

 

“On the edge of the runway. I didn’t want GERTI to squash him!”

 

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Carolyn groaned. “I’m sure your… friend… has far too much sense to get in the way of a departing aircraft.”

 

“But, Mum –“

 

“Arthur.” Wincing, she took the box with its wriggly occupant off him. “You can’t start importing animals from the continent to Britain.”

 

“But…”

 

“ _NO_.” She turned to pass the box to Martin. “Go and let it go.” Martin took the peculiar package reluctantly as Arthur began to make a noise of protest. She groaned. “ _Fine_. Let it out a long way from the runway.”

 

“Oh.” Arthur sounded resigned. “You’re sure that Oliver will be OK?”

 

“Yes!” The unison of the three voices seemed to convince their steward.

 

“…Hmm, alright then.” Arthur waved at Martin’s departing back, arms outstretched as he held the box as far away as possible from his uniform. “Bye, Oliver!”

 

“Honestly.” Carolyn bustled off to get the cabin ready for take off. “I really, really do work in a kindergarten.”


	35. Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for hollyashes.

Douglas gets food poisoning while they’re on a layover in Buenos Aires. He won’t let Martin into his room and tells him very firmly to go away, before Martin hears him sprinting for the bathroom to throw up again. Martin’s lips tighten and he stalks off to reception, returning with a bemused porter with whom he’s communicated largely by means of sign language and ‘el enginero’-style Spanish. The porter opens the door and Martin marches in, finding Douglas feeling very sorry for himself, curled around the toilet retching. He helps the FO back to bed and for the rest of the day becomes MJN’s chief medical officer as well as captain, ferrying sick buckets back and forth to the loo, mopping Douglas’ fever-damp forehead, even reading Douglas’ book to him when he needs distracting and sitting up late into the night to keep Douglas company. At last, exhausted, Martin drops off around sunrise, and when he awakens in the chair by the bed it’s to see Douglas gazing strangely softly at him with an expression that’s closer to incredulous gratitude than Martin’s seen from him since the brown sauce incident.


	36. Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for hollyashes.

Martin is a bit nervous when Douglas offers to take him to an art gallery on their third date - he’s not been to one since a school trip when he was 14. Worried that he’ll embarrass himself with his lack of knowledge, he tries to read as much as he can about the gallery’s works beforehand, and learns chunks of the text on the website to talk to Douglas about.

 

At first, Douglas is clearly surprised by Martin spouting soliloquies as they pass particular paintings. But he listens, and his eyes go soft as he sees Martin’s nerves, and he takes Martin’s hand in public for the first time. Occasionally he points out a particular piece that he likes as he guides them unerringly round, and asks Martin what he thinks. Martin freezes, not sure what to say, afraid of looking silly, but Douglas chafes his knuckles with a thumb and Martin manages to express a stumbling opinion from time to time. 

 

When they get home, Douglas takes Martin up to his spare bedroom and Martin is amazed to see canvases propped up in every available space - some complete, others barely begun or clearly in progress. He gapes, then says almost accusingly “You didn’t tell me you painted!”

 

Douglas just rolls his eyes, and steps to give him a hug. “I only tell people I care about.”

 

Martin goes very still at the implication. “Why me?” he asks.

 

Douglas laughs. “Because you went to all that trouble today.”

 

“But you’re the one who took me to the gallery.”

 

“And you’re the one who memorised nearly the entire website so that you could talk about what you were seeing.”

 

Martin flushes scarlet. “You knew?”

 

Douglas laughs lightly, but not unkindly, and brushes a curl out of Martin’s ear. “I used to volunteer there, before I joined MJN,” he whispers, and pauses before adding with a smile “and one of my jobs was to compose the online copy…”

 

Martin groans in embarrassment, but is cut off by Douglas kissing him, the FO still snickering - but somehow Martin doesn’t care and it feels wonderful and affectionate and safe.


	37. Unison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for hollyashes.

It takes Douglas and Martin a long time to bring up the subject of having children together because they each assume that the other won’t want to - Martin thinks Douglas has already got his two girls and won’t want more, and Douglas assumes that Martin would feel that children will just get in the way of his career. 

 

One day, though, Arthur asks them outright in the portacabin when they’ll have a baby. They both laugh, then say in unison “He doesn’t want kids -” then they each look oddly at the other. “I might…” they say, still in unison, then both sets of eyes go wide as Arthur looks between the two pilots in confusion.

 

Douglas turns to Arthur and asks if he minds giving them a minute alone. Once Arthur’s gone, Martin accuses “you never said!” to which Douglas can only reply “well, neither did you…” and an odd, tense, excited silence falls between them before they step closer to each other and each ask “you want….?”

 

The sudden happiness of discovering that they both want the same thing nearly knocks them off their feet - and making Arthur godfather when baby Esme finally arrives doesn’t seem like thanks enough for getting them to finally admit their true desires to one another.


	38. Nosocomephobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for hollyashes.

Douglas likes to poke fun at Martin because the captain is scared of hospitals - he even refuses to see his new nephew when the baby’s born until the little boy and Caitlyn are discharged. So, when Douglas falls ill himself and needs some tests, the very last thing he expects is for Martin to come running through the door of A&E, looking frantically for him - and Douglas is even more amazed when Martin takes to haunting his bedside and not even flinching as doctors take blood from his partner. All Martin focuses on is Douglas getting better - and no one is more delighted than Martin when Douglas is discharged with a clean bill of health. When Douglas questions him about the phobia he thought Martin had, Martin tells him that he was horribly frightened coming to visit the entire time, but that for Douglas, he’d face an entire roomful of lions. Or CAA examiners. Or even hospitals and doctors. If need be.


	39. Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by an anon on Tumblr - some Douglas-comforting.

Martin was at rather a loss. Douglas had been striding around like a bear with a sore head, lately, and Martin was faced with the uncomfortable knowledge that it was all his fault. Douglas had booked them their first ever trip away together - three days in Dorset, in what looked like a lovely B&B set in stunning countryside - and then... Well, then a theatre company had made Martin an offer of work that he absolutely couldn’t refuse. They’d needed a whole vanload of set ferrying all the way from Fitton to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, and were offering Martin more than £1000 to make the round trip. That amount of money was enough to pay Martin’s rent for nearly six months, and he just couldn’t turn it down....

 

Douglas had understood when Martin had told him the night after he’d received the job offer, but it didn’t make him any happier about the situation. He’d given Martin a perfunctory hug, then cut their evening short - pleading a clearly non-existent headache. And ever since, he’d been grumpier than Martin had seen since Helena left him.

 

Martin fretted unhappily over the problem for the whole week, during which time Douglas barely spoke to him except where regulations dictated it. Martin had tried apologising more, but that only seemed to make things worse; Douglas just stared thunderously at him, then ignored him for the rest of the flight. Martin would have been angry but for the fact that the same sadness at the missed opportunity was churning inside him too.

 

At long last, a brainwave hit. He made a few phone calls, and was amazed when things seemed to fall neatly into place; perhaps some of the Richardson luck was finally rubbing off on him. Now all he had to do was tell Douglas.

 

Martin managed to corner the first officer after their day’s return flight to Basel. “I have some news for you,” he said, purposefully blocking the door out of the flight deck.

 

Douglas didn’t turn around. “Oh?” he responded, sounding uninterested.

 

Martin bit his lip, but soldiered on. “Our mini-break.” 

 

Douglas did swivel about, then, one eyebrow raised, though he remained silent. 

 

“I- I may have come up with a solution.”  Martin stepped forward, and was relieved when Douglas reached to take his hand, rubbing his knuckles with his thumb.

 

“You have?”

 

Martin nodded. “I still have to drive to Edinburgh, but...” Before Douglas’ face could fall, Martin fished in his pockets to draw out the envelope he’d prepared. “Here.”

 

Douglas took it, frowning. “What’s this?”

 

Martin smiled, brushing a finger over Douglas’ cheek. “Open it.”

 

Douglas ripped open the paper, and drew out the little sheaf of thicker card inside. He flipped through, and Martin was gratified to see his normally-composed partner’s jaw dropping open. “Tickets?” Douglas asked, incredulously.

 

Martin grinned. “One return flight to Edinburgh - given that the springs in my van are nearly worn out. One B&B reservation - for two nights. And five tickets to -”

 

“-To different performances of opera at the Festival,” Douglas finished, for him. “A full day’s worth of opera.” He seemed almost awestruck, and shook his head. “But - but -”

 

Martin took the liberty of sliding into Douglas’ lap to lace both arms around his FO’s neck. “No buts,” he chastised. “I want the time with you.”

 

“How did you -” Douglas interrupted his own question by leaning to kiss Martin - “manage it?”

 

“Called in some favours. The flight’s in a jump seat, I’m afraid - and the opera tickets are reduced price for performers - the theatre troupe helped me there - and the B&B might not be up to MJN’s standards, let alone yours -”

 

“Hush.” Douglas was beaming from ear to ear. “I don’t care. This is wonderful.” He kissed Martin twice more, wrapping strong arms round him in a loving embrace. “Oh, love - thank you, and you don’t even like opera....”

 

“Well, if we see five in a day, I supposed that would increase the likelihood of finding one I did enjoy,” Martin reasoned, laughing. He bumped his nose against Douglas’, and asked quietly “So - are we OK?”

 

“Always,” Douglas said, looking suddenly guilty. “Sorry for being so cranky this week.”

 

Martin wriggled closer into Douglas’ chest. “S’OK,” he whispered. “I wasn’t happy with the situation either.”

 

“One thing would make it even better, though.”

 

“What’s that?” Martin leant to look searchingly into Douglas’ eyes. 

 

“If you let me join you for the drives there and back. So I can keep you company.”

 

“What? Really?” Martin felt a little skip of joy in his heart. “But it’ll take hours. You’ll get bored.”

 

“Don’t care and no I won’t, I’ll think of games we can play. Well - games I can beat you at, all the way there and back.” Douglas paused to smirk competitively, before his expression softened. “I love you, darling.” He kissed Martin’s neck.

 

“Mmm.” Martin settled back into Douglas’ arms with a contented sigh. “Love you too.”


	40. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drabble on the subject of "The True You" for iwanttotieyourshoe.

Arthur was surprised when the doorbell rang. His mum was out with Herc for the evening, and Arthur hadn’t been expecting any company. He’d been feeling a bit sad all day; his dad had made his annual phonecall to try and buy GERTI, and this year he hadn’t even pretended to care about how Arthur was.

 

Arthur hastened to the door and flung it open. He gaped. “Skip?”

 

Martin smiled back at him. “Hello.”

 

“Come in!” Arthur beamed.

 

“I brought juice.”

 

“Pineapple?” Arthur was suddenly in his seventh heaven. “Perfect!”

 

Martin chuckled. “I know the true you, don’t I?”

 

“Yes!”


	41. Chill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drabble on the subject of A Cold Embrace, for Axolotl/Skygosh.

“You’re going, then?”

 

Martin couldn’t read the expression on Douglas’ face. “I thought I would, yes.”

 

Douglas turned away, straightening something in his locker. “Even though the man got you sacked from your last job? Even though that’s the night we said we’d do something?”

 

Frowning, Martin felt anxiety accelerating his heartbeat. “We didn’t make any specific plans… and Bob’s never taken any notice of me before. He trains for Air England… he could help my career!”

 

Douglas slammed his locker and gave Martin a chilly embrace. “Your career. Of course.” Without another word, he walked out, leaving Martin behind.


	42. Sauce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drabble on the subject of "Breakfast" for starrysummernights.

Martin groaned as he heard clattering coming from the kitchen of Douglas’ house. He’d had a long week of early starts and van jobs, and it was his first day off in what felt like weeks. Why on _earth_ was Douglas making such an ungodly row?

 

He heard the bedroom door open and rolled over to castigate his partner – but his jaw dropped as he took in the heaped tray that Douglas carried.

 

“Bacon rolls!” Douglas boasted. “With brown sauce liberally applied – in honour of the moment I knew – well, you know.” He blushed.

 

Martin knew. And he was happy.


	43. Gale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Tumblr anon requested a drabble on the subject of "Nature's Fury".

Martin cast a wary eye over the weather report, taking in the massive wind strength, the forecast lightning showers. He could feel GERTI being buffeted even as he sat in the flight deck on the apron.

 

He looked up as Douglas entered the cockpit. “Hello, love.”

 

Douglas blinked. It was rare for Martin to use endearments. “Lovely day, eh?” He began the start-up checks.

 

“Douglas?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

Martin paused, aware of the amazement his request would cause. “You take this leg.”

 

Douglas gaped. “Really?”

 

Nodding, Martin said “You’re the best equipped.”

 

Douglas kissed him, and said no more – to Martin’s relief.


	44. Futon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a Tumblr anon, a double-drabble on the subject of "Boundaries".

Douglas should have guessed that entering into a relationship with Martin wouldn’t come without its share of bumps and hurdles. He was a little amazed at where those obstacles cropped up, though – just when he thought he had the captain sussed out, something else would take him by surprise.

 

When he stayed over at Martin’s student house for the first time, they had a lovely evening – DVD, takeaway and some pretty stellar sex – and afterwards Douglas had scooched over to allow Martin to snuggle into him on the futon. Yet Martin had slid deliberately onto the floor, making as if to sleep there.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Martin glanced up, perplexed. “Sleeping.”

 

“Down there?” Douglas frowned. “Why?”

 

“The futon’s too small for two. The assembly guidelines said so.”

 

Douglas tsked. “Rubbish.” He yanked Martin’s arm, tugging him back into bed.

 

Martin resisted his pull as best he could. “But the futon rules say – one person only!” He shook his head. “If that’s what the warranty allows –“

 

“Martin, for the love of Caelus, stop.” Douglas hugged him. “Some boundaries I’ll respect, but not that one. Now sleep.”

 

Martin whined and wriggled, but couldn’t break free – and eventually, he gave in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caelus was a primal god of the sky in the Roman culture.


	45. Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a Tumblr anon, a drabble on the subject of 'Heart Song'.

Martin was nervous. Then again, that emotion wasn’t new; it was practically his default mode of being. It was just that this time, his excited trepidation wasn’t about the cargo they were flying or a mechanic they were debating. This time, he was in Douglas’ arms, in Douglas’ bed, for the _first_ time – what if he got it wrong somehow?

 

“Martin,” Douglas breathed, ruffling his hair. “You alright?”

 

Martin swallowed, didn’t answer; instead, he pressed closer, chest to chest, realising he could feel Douglas’ heartbeat. The flash of vulnerability soothed him, somehow – it was Douglas’ heart singing next to his.


	46. Colours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For crazycatt71 on Tumblr - a drabble on the subject of "Colours".

Douglas was having a blue day. Not a pretty, turquoise, shimmering sort of blue, like the colour that Verity’s bridesmaids had been wearing as they’d waved his daughter off to start her new married life the evening before – this was a depressing, ugly, teal hue. He felt drab, as if all the colours in the world had been desaturated; the vibrancy gone from everything.

 

He heard footsteps behind him, and a slim arm wrapped round his waist. “Hello,” Martin whispered. “Love you.”

 

To Douglas’ shock, at Martin's words and touch something warm, something red, bloomed inside him.

 

“Love you too.”


	47. Turbulence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for skygosh/axolotl on Tumblr, who requested a drabble on the subject of "Unsettling Revelations".

Martin stared back at Douglas, feeling as if GERTI had just grown fangs and bitten him. It was utterly incomprehensible – like imagining a brainy Arthur, or a meek Carolyn. All he could do was blink.

 

“Say that again,” he managed. He wasn’t even angry. Not yet.

 

Douglas stared at the floor, rubbing one elbow awkwardly. “Helena – she – she wants to try again.”

 

“And you kissed her?” Martin’s head whirled.

 

Douglas’ voice was pleading. “I wish I hadn’t. You have to believe me.” He took a step towards Martin, who held up a hand to stop him.

 

“I need some time.”


	48. Gloaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for tracionn, a drabble for the prompt "Twilight".

“Douglas, I can’t see where I’m going – ow!” Martin had stubbed his toe.

 

“Oops, sorry…” Douglas took Martin’s hand gently and led him through the dense foliage obscuring the darkening sky. “Nearly there…”

 

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.” Martin tripped after Douglas, straining to see in the gloaming. “Wait for me – _oh._ ”

 

The shrubbery had given way to an isolated sandy beach, where Martin could make out a picnic and blanket laid out. Douglas turned, beaming. “Like it?”

 

“Oh, Douglas…” Martin reached for his hand, admiring the last colours of the sunset over the sea. “It’s perfect.”


	49. Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Linguini on Tumblr - a drabble on the subject of "Exhaustion".

“You don’t look too good, Douglas…” Arthur frowned at him worriedly.

 

“I’m fine,” Douglas snapped back, the seemingly-ever-present irritation inside him breaking to the surface again. He felt immediately guilty at Arthur’s wounded expression, but quashed any thought of apologising. He was tired, sinew-deep exhausted, and he couldn’t deal with the steward just now.

 

He stood to leave – and then suddenly the ground was spiralling up to meet him. He was too surprised even to raise his arms to fend it off.

 

When he opened his eyes again, groggily, it was to see threadbare carpet and Arthur’s shoes.

 

_I’m fine._


	50. Locked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a Tumblr anon, a double-drabble in response to the prompt "Tears".

“You’re being very mysterious this evening.” Martin smiled up at Douglas as they walked, hand-in-hand, by Fitton’s canal. A narrowboat drifted lazily past, and the sun was just dipping below the horizon as they reached the lock.

 

Douglas grinned back. “Can’t a man treat his captain to a pleasant stroll?”

 

Martin chuckled. “Just – not like you not to have a plan in mind.” The lock was beautiful, he mused – the keeper had tended lovingly to the gardens around it, and flowers overflowed from tubs in every direction. He realised that Douglas had loosed his hand and looked around.

 

Douglas was on one knee.

 

Martin gaped and his brain seemed to stall. The only sound was of the lock filling behind him. “D-Douglas – what-?” he managed.

 

Douglas looked faintly nervous, but there was the twitch of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “Martin Crieff…” he began. “Martin – I love you from here until the end of the world, from Abu Dhabi to Zurich and back again. Will you marry me?”

 

“Yes,” Martin choked, and flung himself into Douglas’ arms.

 

“You’re crying.” Douglas sounded exhilarated, but his voice shook.

 

“Oh, shut up.” Martin punched him lightly. “So are you.”


	51. Score

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for fractionallyfoxtrot on Tumblr, a drabble for the prompt "33%".

“What are you doing?” Martin snatched the piece of paper out of Carl’s hands.

 

Carl blinked. “I thought I was helping you unpack.”

 

“Well, don’t!” Martin was clutching the paper to himself. “That’s private.” There was a moment’s pregnant silence before he glanced up, looking mortified. “Did you… see?”

 

“See what?” Carl’s arms were folded.

 

“The… mark.”

 

“33%?” Carl asked, and Martin’s face crumpled before he turned away. Carl suddenly realised the issue.

 

“Was that your first theory test score?” Martin didn’t react, but Carl strode over and enveloped him in a hug. “I don’t care. I honestly don’t, love.”


	52. Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a-drab-lunacy requested a drabble on Tumblr to fill the prompt "Everyday Magic".

Martin had tried all the usual places in his hunt for Douglas. His FO wasn’t to be found in the Hose and Hydrant, nor in the nearest coffee shops, nor on the flight deck, nor the portacabin. Martin was at a loss until he remembered – the groundsman’s hut. Dirk was on holiday – it was a guaranteed quiet spot on the airfield. And from what Martin had seen of Douglas’ face as he'd put the phone down to Verity, he’d wanted to be alone.

 

Sure enough, he pushed open the door to find Douglas, moodily kicking an empty paint tin around. Douglas didn’t look up as he entered.

 

“You OK?”

 

“Mmph.”

 

It was barely a response, but at least Martin wasn’t being ignored. “Sorry about Verity.”

 

“She’s a teenager. She’s crotchety.” Douglas looked up. “I’ll get over it.”

 

“Mm.” Martin walked over, and without further ado pressed his lips to Douglas’. The kiss started slowly, but rapidly became more passionate, Douglas’ hands worming under Martin’s jacket, breathing fast as they clung to each other. Martin kissed his way down Douglas’ neck, muttering endearments, and was shocked to hear Douglas chuckle. “What?”

 

“I feel better already.” Douglas peered down affectionately. “You’re magic.”


	53. Frost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For hollyashes over on Tumblr - a drabble for the prompt "Frost".

Douglas was late, but to his surprise, today Martin was, too. Douglas even went and stood outside, peering down the street and waiting for the familiar cough and groan of Martin’s van. It was a frigid morning, and he could see his breath clearly, misting in the air. He pretended he was a dragon for a few secret moments, huff-puffing; only stopping when Martin finally pulled up.

 

Douglas climbed in, kissing Martin’s chilly nose. “Sorry,” the captain apologised. “The frost – was coaxing the van to life.”

 

Douglas just smiled, and used the cold as an excuse to warm Martin’s hands.


	54. Brolly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For hollyashes on Tumblr, a drabble for the prompt "Umbrella".

“What’s the matter, Skip?” Arthur asked.

 

“Forgot my brolly,” Martin said, dolefully peering out into the murk. “It’s my day for the walkround…”

 

“Oh dear… I don’t have one to lend you, I’m afraid!” Carolyn called Arthur and he skipped out of the flight deck again.

 

Martin realised Douglas was smirking at him. “What?”

 

“I’ve got one.”

 

“And what do I have to do?” Martin asked suspiciously.

 

“What do you want to do?”

 

A brainwave struck. In one liquid motion, Martin twizzled to straddle Douglas’ lap and kissed him deeply.

 

“It’s yours,” Douglas gasped when they broke at last. “Darling.”


	55. Dignity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for martinrichardson on Tumblr to answer the prompt "Lost And Found".

“I don’t want to do this…” Martin muttered, desperately, face the same shade of red as his hair.

 

Next to him, Douglas chafed his knuckles. “Come on, old thing. You promised Arthur – the airfield talent show won’t be the same without full MJN participation, he said.”

 

Martin stared despairingly out from the wings into the sea of faces in the hangar while Dirk finished his act. “But… my dignity…” he moaned.

 

“Lost your first day at MJN,” Douglas countered, firmly, surprised when Martin turned to cuddle him.

 

“No,” Martin said.

 

“No?”

 

“I found it again. In you.”

 

Douglas’ heart leapt.


	56. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sungmee asked for a drabble on Tumblr - originally she asked for a fill for "Breakfast", but since I'd done that one, I've written one for "Burning" instead.

“What can I smell?” Douglas asked, jerking back from Martin’s kisses, his nose wrinkling. “Are you cooking toast?”

 

“No…” Martin replied, looking confused.

 

Douglas shook his head. It felt as if a fug was enveloping him. “I can smell burning...”

 

He stood, swaying. Martin followed, concern in his expression. “Douglas? Your face – it’s all droopy –“

 

Douglas sniffed violently, trying to clear the singeing scent. He went to take a step towards Martin – and fell, caught with a gasp by the captain. “M’tin?” _Can’t speak_.

 

“I’m calling for help!”

 

 _Martin – please_ – and then unconsciousness had him in its iron grip.


	57. Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from the tenth fandot creativity night - "socks and/or before".

“Once upon a time… hmm, once upon a time…”

 

Martin frowned down at the small, dopey face staring up at him. Esme was bundled in his arms, wrapped up warm and cosy, but for some reason she was refusing to fall asleep. Martin had walked with her, rocked her, hummed to her (he had adamantly forsworn actual singing since Douglas had made fun of his rendition of Baa Baa Black Sheep) and held her close and warm, but despite everything, she was still awake. Every time he tried to put her down, she began to whimper, so Martin was forced to keep cradling her even though he really wanted to be downstairs, eating dinner with Douglas.

 

His only remaining idea was to try telling her a bedtime story. She might be a little young, he supposed, but he figured that he could use the practice before she was old enough to start actually feeding back reviews of his narrative prowess (or lack thereof)  to him.

 

“Once upon a time…” he tried again.

 

“Stuck for ideas?”

 

Martin whirled round, making Esme bleat crossly. “How long have you been standing there?”

 

Douglas was leaning nonchalantly on the doorframe. “Long enough.” He sauntered towards them both. “I thought you might have lost your way between the changing mat and the crib.”

 

“Oh, sod off,” Martin jibed, without heat. “She just won’t sleep, and she cries every time I put her down. So I thought a bedtime story… but I was just realising that I don’t know how to tell one.” He held Esme out, but Douglas darted away.

 

“No, no no.” Douglas wagged a finger. “I have a sauce on the stove to finish. You tell her a story.”

 

Martin wanted to run his hands through his hair, but they were full of baby. “But _how?_ ” he asked, frustratedly.

 

Douglas shrugged. “I don’t know. Tell her about something that happened to you before she came along.” He disappeared before Martin could object.

 

Martin mused. “Hmm… before. Before you.” He poked her nose, noticing once again that it was the mirror of his own. “Before you… well, Daddy was in the sky, a lot. Flying up high so high, where the clouds live.” He paused. Esme wasn’t asleep, but she had stopped her grumpy whimpering, and she was regarding him seriously from eyes that so often seemed far older than her mere nine months.

 

Martin breathed and carried on, describing MJN Air, Arthur’s antics, Carolyn’s rules, Douglas’ deeds of derringdo. His voice rose and fell, uptempo with excitement at times, slow with heavy memory at others. He paced the floor, used a free hand to gesture, sketching GERTI’s motion through the air.

 

Long, quiet minutes later, once he’d talked himself half-hoarse, he turned to find Douglas in the doorway again, cocking an eyebrow at him. “How goes it?” Douglas asked, softly.

 

Martin blinked, and looked down at Esme for the first time in a quarter of an hour. He’d been so lost in recollections that he’d been fixed in the past, not concentrating on their daughter. “Oh,” he said, in surprise. “Oh, she’s sleeping.” A little pulse of warmth at her relaxed face filled him, and he kissed her forehead gently before laying her oh-so-carefully in the crib.

 

“Dinner’s ready.” Douglas set the baby monitor next to her and took Martin’s hand.

 

“Coming.” Martin didn’t move, though, taking a moment to gaze down at Esme’s dreaming form. “I love her so much.” He looked up to find Douglas smiling at him. “What?” Martin asked, a bit defensively.

 

“Nothing.” Douglas led him to the stairs. “I love you.”

 

Martin squeezed his hand. “You were right. About how to tell her a story.”

 

“...You told her about St Petersburg first, didn’t you?”

 

 _“_ Yes…. What?! Shut _up,_ Douglas.”

 

“I knew it.”


	58. Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for my workshop at EAC2, for the exercise about a character's possessions and how they reveal plot or personality.

Douglas hated dusting. Consequently he’d nearly stopped noticing when people walked into his rather echoey lounge and sneezed; it was almost how he expected to be greeted when he had guests over to dinner. But when his daughter arrived to stay with him with a shiny new asthma inhaler and then wheezed all weekend he guiltily realised he’d have to make more of an effort… 

 

The following Wednesday, he had the day off and decided it was time to make a start. At first he looked glumly around, unsure where to begin, but then he spotted an easy job - he picked up the whisky glasses from the sideboard one by one and took them to the kitchen sink to rinse. They’d been a wedding present from old GW, he remembered - half a lifetime ago, it felt like. With a start, he realised that it had been more than eleven years since he last used them. The dust was thick in the bottom of each glass - his houseproud mother would have been horrified if she’d seen them. 

 

But as Douglas washed, dried and then wrapped up each glass in newspaper to put them neatly away in the attic, all he felt was a warm glow of cautious pride. 


	59. Blinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for my writing workshop at EAC2, this was my response to the exercise about highlighting contrasting attitudes between characters.

“Martin!” 

 

 

Martin jumped out of his skin and banged his head on the instrument panel as he lurched off the floor. “ _Carolyn?_ ” 

 

 

“What are you doing here?” Carolyn stepped into the flight deck. “I saw the light on in the plane. It’s your day off!"

 

 

“I know.” Martin rubbed the bruise forming on top of his head. “But I realised that the overhaul of GERTI’s systems was due, and I was worried about one of the lights on the instrument panel - it was blinking, well, not blinking exactly, more sort of flickering, a sort of off-on-on-off-off-off-on -"

 

 

“Martin, stop babbling, for goodness’ sake.” Carolyn folded her arms. 

 

 

“Sorry,” Martin said. “I just wanted to try and mend it."

 

 

“But the point of the overhaul is to fix things like that.” Carolyn raised an eyebrow.

 

 

“I know, but we can’t have her _fail_.” Martin looked scandalised. “Having a light blinking like that is against the rules!"

 

 

“Nonetheless, it’s your day off. Go home. Relax.” Carolyn glared ferociously at him. “That’s a rule from me - you’re no good to me exhausted."

 

 

“Fine.” Martin sighed and abandoned the wiring issue. He headed out of the door, but stopped. “Come to that - it’s your day off too, isn’t it?"

 

 

Carolyn glared even harder. “None of your business. I have books to balance.” When Martin showed no sign of moving, she took a threatening step towards him. “Go _home_."

 

 

Martin darted away as bidden, and Carolyn picked up the accounts ledger again with a sigh. 

 


	60. Goggles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for my fanfic workshop at EAC2, this is a second response to the game about a character's possessions.

Herc’s first Christmas as Carolyn's 'man she knew' was…. memorable. He’d never spent the holiday with anyone like Arthur, for starters - well, he had, but they’d been aged 10 at the time - and at first the boundless energy of the Knapp-Shappey household took him aback. Arthur had been like a Santa-themed whirlwind for weeks - leaping about the house and hanging holly with gay abandon and no regard for anyone’s safety where prickling was concerned, so Herc couldn’t say he hadn’t had any warning. Even so, it was only 9 in the morning and he was exhausted already.

 

And then Arthur came to him with a wrapped present, which Herc took with surprise. “For you!” Arthur said, beaming.

 

Herc unwrapped the paper cautiously. He was conscious that Arthur was still Carolyn’s son after all, and he hadn’t trusted a gift not to be a sheep since Finn McCool III had arrived in his life - but when the present finally fell on to his lap, he burst out laughing.

 

It was a joke pair of classic aviator’s goggles. Herc put them on immediately, to Arthur’s extreme happiness - he was delighted at the thought from Arthur - and even Carolyn had to admit that when paired with a paper hat from a cracker they combined to create a rather, well, unforgettable sight. 


	61. Electrics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for my fanfic workshop at EAC2 - this was for an exercise about challenging a character's beliefs, in this instance that Martin believes he'd hate to be an electrician. (Please forgive my sum total of zero knowledge about real avionics - the exercise didn't really permit the time for Googling!)

They were already running late when it happened. GERTI’s engine wouldn’t start, and one of the bright orange warning lights on her dashboard illuminated. Douglas squinted at it. 

 

“Avionics,” he groaned, and Martin frowned.

 

“Are we _going_ yet?” Carolyn yelled from the cabin.

 

“She won’t start!’ Douglas called back.

 

“Well, make her!"

 

“I’d never thought of that…” Douglas muttered, as Martin slid from his seat and opened the avionics bay, peering inside. “What are you doing?"

 

“I see it!” Martin shouted triumphantly. He gingerly prodded a twisted wire into place, then retook his seat. “Try the ignition now?"

 

Douglas did so, with a distinctly dubious look on his face - which disappeared as GERTI’s engines coughed and then revved normally. 

 

“Well done Douglas!” Arthur shouted from the cabin.

 

“It was Martin!” Douglas hollered back, astonishment still written on his features. “How…?” he asked, disbelievingly.

 

Martin shrugged. “Picked the odd bit up from my dad,” he said, modestly. He glowed with pride all the way home, and when he got back to his attic, he raised a glass in salute to the multimeter on the shelf. 


	62. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This will forever live in my memory as The Ficlet That John Finnemore Listened To And Laughed At. It came from the prompt words 'Arthur' + 'Douglas' + 'Salt'.
> 
> I still can't believe it happened.

Once Douglas was captain again, to Herc's chagrin he actually began accepting some of Arthur's invitations to join the new Shipwrights and him for dinner. Douglas seemed to relish coming straight from work, just so no one could object that he was still wearing his shiny new four-bar epaulettes - right next to Herc's new three.

 

Douglas never drank the wine that Carolyn and Herc shared, instead joining Arthur in fruit juice, but even without alcohol he managed to knock the salt cellar over one night. On childish instinct, Douglas righted it and threw a pinch of the crystals over his shoulder.

 

"Why'd you do that, Skip?" Arthur asked.

 

"Oh, it's an old wives' superstition - supposedly it fends off bad luck," Douglas said, airily.

 

"Oh," Arthur mused. "Just a few grains are enough?"

 

"Supposedly," Douglas said, and thought no more about it - until the following month, when he was forced to apologise to a waiter who was hit by Arthur's entire flying salt cellar.

 

"What did you do that for, idiot boy?" Carolyn asked incredulously as the waiter beat an indignant retreat.

 

"I thought that if a bit of salt was good, LOTS was better!" Arthur said. "Now I'm covered for the next - ooh, 400 times I spill the salt."


	63. Vanilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For doorwaytoparadise. Gorgeous GORGEOUS art provided by her via her Tumblr - clairedrawsairdraws.tumblr.com.

“Look, chaps!” Arthur bounded into the portacabin, delightedly holding aloft three ice cream cones. “One each!”

 

Douglas looked up and raised a languid eyebrow. “Really, Arthur?” he inquired.

 

“Yeah!” Arthur poked out his tongue to catch a drip from the nearest cone, ignoring the smear of ice cream that then dabbed onto the tip of his nose. “The man was just driving past the car park, so I stopped him!” His face fell slightly as Douglas failed to look impressed. “You don’t want yours?”

 

Martin stood up behind his desk. “I’ll have one,” he said, more keenly than Douglas would have expected. Hearing Douglas scoff, Martin spun round. “What?” he asked defensively. “It’s the hottest day of the year.”

 

Douglas shrugged, trying to look dismissive. “Oh, fine,” he said. “Thanks, Arthur.” He took the sticky cone and demolished half the ice cream in one gulp, wincing at the consequent brain freeze.

 

But then he caught a glimpse of Martin eating his cone, and it felt as if the brain freeze had extended throughout his whole body. Martin, entirely unselfconsciously, was licking at his cone more sensuously than Douglas had ever seen anyone eat an ice cream. The captain was methodically licking bottom to top, bottom to top, and a smear of the cream caught on the edge of his mouth for a moment before Martin’s tongue flicked to clean it away. Entirely involuntarily, Douglas had to sit down with a  _whuff_  of aroused breath. He’d been looking longingly sideways at Martin for a while, but had previously always been able to keep his attraction well-regulated and hidden. This… this risked undoing him.

 

 

The taste of the ice cream was apparently deeply pleasurable – not surprising, Douglas reflected, given Martin’s normal ascetic existence – and Martin was letting out happy little hums as he nibbled so seductively at his cone.

 

“Your ice cream – it’s dripping!” Arthur called over, but Douglas was lost in contemplation and missed the warning. He only realised when a stream of cold droplets pattered down his shirtfront and he yelped at the frigid sensation.

 

“Damn!”

 

Martin glanced up, still sucking at his cone, and Douglas gulped at the sight of Martin staring through his lowered lashes.  _So pretty_ , Douglas’ brain supplied against his will, and he shook himself mentally.

 

 

Martin smiled. “You’d better change,” he commented. “Carolyn will be here with the client in half an hour.”

 

“R-right,” Douglas replied, kicking himself for stammering. He turned and threw the remainder of his treat away uneaten, then retrieved a clean shirt from his locker. “I’ll go and –“ He left the sentence unfinished and headed into the portacabin’s loos.

 

Douglas had just removed his jacket and the dirty shirt when the door to the loos squeaked open and he turned to see Martin step in. Martin’s eyes flicked over him as he held out a pink tub. “Here,” Martin said. “Stain remover.”

 

“You keep this at work?” Douglas took the proffered pot.

 

“You never know.” Martin’s eyes seemed to have drifted to Douglas’ bare chest for a moment, but just as Douglas realised where the captain was looking he had snapped his gaze back to Douglas’ face. “Especially where Arthur’s concerned.”

 

Martin still had his nearly-finished cone in hand, and he shuddered as a trail of ice cream slid from the bottom down the side of his palm. He licked at it hungrily, and Douglas felt his eyes go hooded with desire at the sight. Martin was on a hiding to nothing with his clean-up efforts – the bottom of his cone had completely given way, and more ice cream was dripping…

 

Douglas stepped forward, emboldened by the stare Martin had given him, seconds before. “You’ve missed some,” he purred, as alluringly as he knew how, and was rewarded by a noticeable increase in tension in Martin’s shoulders. Prowling still closer, he dropped his shirt and jacket unheeded onto the floor. “Let me get that for you,” he suggested.

 

Before Martin could object, Douglas had bent his head to lick at Martin’s wrist. He felt the captain shiver, but to his relief Martin didn’t draw away. Instead, Douglas felt a slightly sticky thumb tentatively tracing his cheek, and suddenly – suddenly – Martin had drawn him up into a kiss - one that tasted of vanilla and sweetness and summer.

 

 

Douglas knew he’d never again look at ice cream the same way.


	64. Bruise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the paramountly brilliant rooshappy.

“Coffee, chaps.” Arthur stepped into the flight deck and deposited two mugs next to Martin and Douglas.

 

Martin was focused on the fact that neither of the drinks were actually steaming - potentially a sign that Arthur had got distracted during the heating of them, or that he’d made the coffee nearly an hour ago, as sometimes happened - but Douglas was more attentive. 

 

“What’s up, Arthur?” Douglas raised an eyebrow as he scrutinised the steward. “You don’t seem quite as - well - full of incandescent joy as normal.”

 

Martin looked up, and realised that no, Arthur looked distinctly down in the dumps. “Passengers causing trouble?” he enquired.

 

Arthur shook his head, and gave a wan version of his normal grin. “No, no,” he said. “My arm is just all hurty, and I don’t know why.” He rolled his sleeve back. “Look.”

 

A lividly purple bruise stood out on Arthur’s skin, and both Martin and Douglas winced in sympathy. “How did you do that?” Martin asked.

 

Arthur shrugged. “I don’t even know,” he said. “I dreamt about falling over, two nights ago, but Mum said it wasn’t possible to get bruises from dreams.”

 

Martin patted him gently on the shoulder. “I often end up with bruises I can’t explain,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “Comes with being pale and doing lots of lifting boxes.”

 

Douglas was still eyeing the mark on Arthur’s forearm. “It’ll get better in a couple of days, and you won’t feel it anymore…” Arthur frowned, but Douglas went on. “Also - have you noticed? It looks - from this angle at least - just like Goofy’s head.”

 

“It does?” Arthur sounded dubious and tried to twist his elbow to see, wincing as the movement hurt him a little.

 

“Wait, wait.” Douglas caught his hand. “Look - here.” He traced the outline of the blemished skin. “Here’s his nose and mouth - and that’s his ear - and look, there’s even a paler bit that could be his eye -”

 

“Oh yeah!” From seeming utterly dejected, Arthur’s spirits shot back into the stratosphere. “Wow, that’s so cool!”

 

“Very cool,” Martin agreed, not bothering to hide his grin. 

 

Arthur was still examining his arm, a delighted expression written all over his face. Martin decided he could chance a request, and waved the mugs back at Arthur. “If you’re feeling better -”

 

“I  _am_ , Skip! Thanks, Douglas!”

 

“- do you think you could get the coffee above the temperature of lukewarm bathwater, please?”

 

“Right away!” Arthur skipped out of the flight deck, and normality - or what passed for it at MJN Air - was happily restored.


	65. Towel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from the eleventh fandot creativity night - "Towel".
> 
> Especially for fractionallyfoxtrot.
> 
> Warning for explicit content in this chapter.

“Martin?” Carl swung the front door shut behind him. “Hello?”

There was no answer, and Carl frowned. Martin’s van was in the street outside, so he must have got back from his big moving job of the day.  _Where could he be?_

Carl wandered up the stairs, calling Martin’s name as he went, to no response. As he reached the landing, though, he heard the faint noise of water in the bathroom and he strode across to open the door. However, he had only touched the handle when he reconsidered and knocked. Martin and he had lived together for more than six months, but the captain was still intensely private about certain things.

He knocked a second time. “Hello?”

But there was still no reply, and with a shrug Carl pushed the door open. “Hell- _oh_.”

Martin was under the shower, but he seemed to be doing an inefficient job of getting clean, judging by the way his head was thrown back and by the movements of his hand round his –  _well_. Carl couldn’t look away.

“ _My_ ,” he said, admiringly, and Martin convulsed in shock, nearly slipping over.

“Carl?” Martin jack-knifed and tried to twist away from the doorway, but Carl just shook his head.

“Oh, no no no.” Carl stepped forward and thrust his hand into the water to grab Martin’s arm, heedless of the way his shirtsleeve instantly became sopping under the spray. “You don’t get to hide.”

“But Carl…” Martin was flushed scarlet, the blush extending down his neck right to his chest. Carl licked his lips at the sight.

“No,” he insisted. “Don’t.”

Martin relaxed just a little, lowering his eyes shyly as the water continued to ricochet off his back. “You don’t mind?”

“Mind?” Carl swallowed hard. “What part of this do you think could possibly offend me?”

Martin half-shrugged, still looking bashful. “I just had such a long day… and I was aching all over… and –“ he stared a little accusingly – “you weren’t supposed to be off shift for another half an hour –“

Carl grinned. “I got bored. So I came home.”

Martin frowned. “Carl, no! That’s so unprof-  _oh_.”

Carl had reached down and covered Martin’s hand with his. “Problem?” he asked innocently, giving a single stroke.

“Ugh… no…” Martin shuddered with pleasure and Carl gave in to temptation and climbed in to the bath next to him.

“Come here.” Carl leant to kiss Martin, feeling the water pasting his shirt and trousers tightly to his skin, enjoying the heat as their kiss deepened and Martin clung to him with a groan.

“You’ll get… soaked…” Martin gasped, not releasing his clutch on Carl’s waist.

“Don’t care,” Carl breathed, shaking his dripping fringe out of his eyes and beginning to speed his strokes on Martin’s cock. “My towel’s just there.”

“Oh… oh, fine…” Martin croaked, incoherently, and seconds later he was crying out and burying his face in Carl’s neck as Carl succeeded in making him forget about everything else.


	66. Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the eleventh fandot creativity night, to answer the prompt "Beard". Specially for CatS81. 
> 
> (The timeline in this one is all floopy as it relates to canon. Don't poke it too hard for fear it'll disintegrate. I also wandered away from the prompt rather... My excuse is I only had the 15 minutes creativity nights permit ;) )

“Douglas?”

Douglas turned around at the sound of his name, startled at being apparently recognised. He scanned the bustling crowd on the pavement, wondering if he’d misheard.

“Douglas!” The woman extracted herself from behind two businessmen, stepping neatly on one of their toes as she did so and ignoring the indignant “ _hey_!” her action produced. “I thought it was you.” She scrutinised his face from her diminutive height. “Even behind that travesty of a beard.”

Douglas scratched his cheek on instinct and frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said slowly, taking a moment to appreciate her good looks as he scanned her up and down. “I can’t believe I’d forget someone… like  _you_ …” he purred in a voice that normally left women weak at the knees. “But unforgiveable though it may be, I can’t place you.”

To his surprise, she didn’t blush or chuckle, which were the usual responses. Instead her eyes narrowed appraisingly, and she held her head higher. “It’s Carolyn. Carolyn Knapp-Shappey? You were the relief pilot on a couple of my flights.”

“You’re… a first officer?” Douglas furiously wracked his brains. How could he have forgotten a woman like this?

Carolyn laughed, dismissively. “No. Senior Cabin Steward. British Airways – those long haul flights you covered over to Tokyo?”

“Oh, yes!” Clarity burst in Douglas’ brain. She’d been a – well, if she’d been a little older, he might have used the words ‘harridan’. Or ‘battle-axe’. But she was barely middle-aged, not much older than him, he’d wager – and he remembered the efficiency with which she’d taken charge of the difficult cabin with approval. “You handled those flights perfectly,” he commented admiringly, and noticed a barely perceptible glow come into her eyes.

 _Nothing ventured_ … he pondered, and decided to chance the offer. “Fancy a drink?” he asked. “I was in town to drop my daughter with my ex, and I’ve done that, so…”

She looked him up and down, and Douglas felt the heated satisfaction that came from perceiving that the object of his attention had the same idea in mind as he did. “Fine,” she said, and fixed him with a gimlet stare. “But you’re buying.”

“Deal.” They fell into step, and Douglas directed them into a pub he favoured – not too noisy and with a fine selection of whiskies available. “So,” he said, “what brings you to Barrow-in-Furness, then? Bit the back of beyond, isn’t it?”

She sniffed. “Job interview.”

“You’re leaving British Airways?” Douglas cast his mind around for an airline that would be based up here.

She glared. “I was giving the job interview, you misogynist. Just because I’m a woman, you don’t think I could be in a senior position?”

Douglas held up his hands. “My apologies.” He drained his whisky glass and signalled to the barman for another one each. “What’s the job?”

“First officer.” Carolyn knocked her drink back too. “I’ve just come into ownership of a plane.”

“ _Goodness_.” Douglas wasn’t quite sure if he believed her. “Was the chap any good?”

Carolyn scowled and shook her head. “Bloody useless. Waste of a trip.”

“That’s too bad.” Douglas swilled the amber liquid round his glass. “But I wouldn’t call it a wasted trip.”

“No?” She glanced over to him.

“You met me, after all.”

“Ha.” Carolyn moodily gulped more whisky down. “Yes. 300 miles driven and seeing you makes every one of them count for something.”

“Come, come now…” Douglas leant forward, and risked placing a hand on her knee. To his delight she didn’t bat it away. “No need for all that sarcasm.”

“I beg to differ.” The rest of the whisky disappeared, but she remained steady on her stool.

Douglas took in her bare left hand, and grinned internally. “Are you heading back down south tonight?” he asked, all innocence.

“I’m staying at the Holiday Inn down the road.” She met his eyes. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed where your hand is.”

Douglas smirked. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve allowed it to remain there.”

Carolyn snorted, but called for another drink. As the barman wandered back over, Douglas continued. “As it happens… the Holiday Inn is where I always stay.”

“Is it now?” She managed to sound supremely uninterested, but Douglas noticed she shifted nearer on her stool, calculating to brush their arms together.

“Allow me to see you home – well, hotel – for the night.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’d hate anything to become of you.”

“I’m a CEO and owner of my own company.” Carolyn jerked her chin higher. “Things only happen to me if I let them.”

“Naturally.” Douglas rubbed a circle with his thumb into her leg.

“I’ll let you… see me home.”

“Thank you,” Douglas said, delight thrilling through him. “Shall we?”

“One for the road, first.”

“Agreed.”

* * *

The next morning, Douglas exited the hotel room as quietly as he could. He’d left Carolyn a note and ordered her breakfast, but hadn’t liked to wake her.

And as for the CV that he’d happened to slip into her bag – well. If she liked the look of it, perhaps she’d give him a call.


	67. Eclair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from the eleventh fandot creativity night - "But I wanted that one..." This one was written for clairedrawsairdraws/doorwaytoparadise.
> 
> NB. This chapter is rated Explicit.

“But  _I_  wanted that one!” Douglas didn’t quite pout, but it was a near-run thing.

Martin waggled a finger teasingly. “Ah-ah-ah,” he chastised. “You didn’t do the washing up while I was gone this morning… so I ate the last chocolate éclair while you were out this afternoon.” He grinned sharkily. “It’s only fair.”

Douglas prowled across the kitchen towards him. “I told you specifically that that one was mine,” he insisted, enjoying the way Martin took an instinctive step back until his hips bumped the worktop. “I had plans for that éclair…”

“Plans?” Martin laughed, a trifle breathlessly. “Bit of a grand way of saying that you were going to scoff it nearly whole for pudding tonight, don’t you think?”

Douglas came to a halt right in front of Martin, and leant his hands onto the work surface either side of the captain’s waist, careful not to touch him. “Oh, no no,” he lilted, teasingly. “I had  _plans_.” He glanced at Martin’s lips for a second and smirked. “And now you’ve eaten the patisserie that formed the key part of my scheme.”

“ _Scheme_?” Martin asked, his voice high and breathless. He licked his lips as Douglas’ gaze flicked momentarily to his mouth. “What – what sort of a scheme?”

Douglas took one step back, enjoying the involuntary sway of Martin’s shoulders after his retreating figure. “Oh,” he said, airily. “I was going to bring it upstairs once you were in bed tonight.”

“You were?”

Douglas nodded. “Then I was going to paint a little picture with the chocolate sauce.”

Martin frowned in spite of himself. “Sounds messy.”

“Hmm, perhaps.” Douglas smiled darkly. “But it wouldn’t matter.”

“It wouldn’t?”

“No.” Douglas drew out the sound, and slowly, imperceptibly, began an advance forwards again. “I’d have painted your chest with it, you see.”

Martin let out a breath that was more of a squeak, seeming struck dumb.

Douglas leant on the worktop again, crowding Martin against it. “Yes,” he said, his voice as silky as he could make it. “And I was going to lick it off.”

“Th-that’s just the chocolate.” Martin quivered for just a second, then managed to compose himself to ask “I assume your scheme also involved the pastry?” He was clearly trying to sound unbothered, but the effort was futile – his voice shook a little.

Douglas smirked. “Of course.” He drew a hand along the worktop, settling it securely at Martin’s waist, tugging their hips together. “I was going to let us each bite off one of the ends, to expose the –“ he inhaled delicately – “cream…”

“Oh,” Martin gulped. “Yes?” Douglas paused, enjoying the suspense, until Martin begged desperately: “ _And_???” He sounded quite broken.

Grinning, Douglas’ hand slid down and round until he was cupping the now-very-noticeable bulge in Martin’s jeans. “And then, I thought I might use it… here.” He waited for a beat, then added wryly: “It would make such a nice… tube, you see.”

Martin’s eyes flew wide, and his cheeks were hectic with colour. “Douglas,” he moaned, and pressed forward into the FO’s grasping palm. “ _Please_ ….”

Douglas stepped away completely, looking sorrowful. “You ate it, Martin. You know you did.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin groaned, desperately. “I didn’t know….”

Douglas tutted admonishingly. “Well, now you do.” He let the sentence hang in the air for ten tortured seconds, before at last he took pity on Martin. “It’s a good job I only went out to get some more.”

Martin started with surprise. “You did?”

Douglas nodded with a smile. “I thought one éclair might not be quite… enough.  _Hey_!” Martin had grabbed his hand and was yanking him into the hall, where the bag from the bakery sat by the front door – just where Douglas had left it. “Where are we going?” he laughed.

“ _Upstairs_ ,” Martin ordered, and Douglas didn’t feel inclined to disobey.


	68. Stash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To answer a prompt for the eleventh fandot creativity night - "Oh no, you found my secret stash of..."
> 
> Written for SherlocksPatronus.

“Martin?”

Theresa’s voice carried down the stairs to where Martin was packing a box in the kitchen. “Yes?” he called back.

There was an odd pause, then Theresa said “Um… perhaps you should come up here?”

Martin frowned, but finished wrapping up his second plate and deposited it carefully next to the bowls in the box. “Coming,” he hollered and wandered up the stairs to his bedroom. 

He froze in the attic doorway when he realised where Theresa was looking. “Oh. Oh my God.”

Rushing over, he snatched the stack of magazines out of her hands. “I’m sorry, sorry,” he babbled, knowing his face was turning a brighter red than a Virgin tail-fin. “I didn’t know you’d look…”

“Under the mattress?” Theresa’s voice was stern, but her eyes were dancing.

“Well… yes.” Martin turned away and dropped the magazines face down into the box that the princess had been filling with his possessions. He was perspiring. “I can explain.”

Theresa sat down and crossed her legs. “I think you should.” She grinned. “I know what some men are like… but I never expected you to be hiding… those kind of publications.”

Martin wrung his hands, desperately. “It’s not what you think.”

“It isn’t?”

“No!” He rocked on his heels. “I shouldn’t have bought them.”

“Why not?”

He knew his face was betraying his surprise at her query. “I can’t afford to! Well, I used not to be able to, before now.” Wiping his brow, he carried on. “Every time I looked at them when I got them home, I was reminded that I hadn’t stuck to my budget. Captains should have some self-control!” He looked at her imploringly. “Don’t you agree?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I suppose so.”

“So that’s why I hid them. I kept telling myself I wouldn’t buy any of them anymore… but, but then Airliner World had a cover story about the new braking system on the Dreamliner, and Aircraft Monthly had all these photos with the new Airbus, and Plane and Pilot had an interview with Easyjet’s chief captain, and… and… I couldn’t help myself.” He stared glumly at the floor.

“So that’s why you hid them under your bed? Because you were ashamed you’d spent money to buy them?”

Martin nodded miserably. “Yes.” He hardly dared to look at her. “You must think I’m insane.”

“Martin.”

He glanced up, and met her eyes – astonished to see good humour sparkling there rather than chastisement.

“I can honestly say that I’ve never been so relieved to hear anything in my entire life.” Theresa grinned at him.

He took a tentative step towards her. “Really?”

“Really. At first, I thought…” She went a little pink, then waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter.”

Martin blinked in puzzlement. “Thought what?” He processed what she’d said, then blushed ruby-red again. “Oh.  _Oh_.” He shook his head violently. “Good Lord, no.”

“Thank goodness,” Theresa snickered, then stood to pull him into a hug.

Martin supposed later that it shouldn’t have been a surprise when his Christmas present from his now-fiancée was a subscription to all three publications – along with magazine binders so his new reading material could be proudly displayed on a living room shelf.


	69. Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the eleventh fandot creativity night, to answer the prompt "Fish!"
> 
> Written for sircarolyn/timeladyleo.

Carolyn wasn’t nervous. Of course she wasn’t. CEO’s didn’t get stage-fright, especially not for something as trivial as meeting a… friend. Yes, friend. Herc could consider himself fortunate that she would go so far as to call him that. (Not out loud, of course. Wouldn’t do to give him ideas.)

She wiped her hands rather distractedly on her apron, then untied the strings and slipped it over her head, revealing the dress she’d put on as a concession to this being their first evening meeting. (Not a date. She didn’t do ‘dates’.)

Crossing the kitchen, she was just peering at the dish in the oven to check on it when the doorbell rang. Thanking her lucky stars that she’d managed to fend Arthur off from his enthusiastic efforts to ‘help’ with the night’s cuisine, she walked deliberately slowly to answer the door. (There was no way she’d betray excitement.)

She pulled the door open to find Herc on the step, leaning nonchalantly against her porch. His smile widened when he saw her. “Evening, Carolyn.”

“Hello.” She nodded briskly and stepped aside. “Late again.”

Herc raised an eyebrow as he entered. “I’m exactly on time.”

Carolyn gestured at the wall. “Not by that clock, you’re not.” (She  _certainly_ hadn’t set the time on it forwards earlier that day.)

Herc held up his hands. “Mea culpa,” he said, but smiled. “Here. I brought you this.” He held out a bottle of white wine, and she took it and examined the label, nodding approval. (Not too much, though. She’d make  _some_  efforts towards politeness, but it wouldn’t do to let him become self-satisfied.)

“Come in, then.”

Herc followed her into the kitchen. “Something smells good,” he commented, warmly. He took the seat she indicated while she rifled a drawer for the corkscrew. “What have you made?”

Carolyn found the screw and passed it to Herc, along with the bottle. “Make yourself useful,” she ordered crisply. Turning to stir the sauce on the stove, she answered his question. “I’ve tried a new recipe. Baked Lemon Sole.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then Herc said “Fish?” in a rather strained voice.

She swivelled again and fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Yes. Fish.”

Herc sighed. “I told you I’m a vegetarian.”

“No.” Carolyn put a hand on her hip. “You said you don’t eat meat. This isn’t meat.”

“It’s the same principle.”

“Come on, Herc.” Carolyn felt the joy of an impending contretemps flooding through her veins. “Even a namby-pamby non-meat-eater like you can’t possibly object to a  _fish’s_  demise.”

“It’s still a life!” Herc protested. “I thought you saw my reaction to your shoal of whitebait?”

Carolyn sniffed, and went to drain the vegetables. “I assumed you were joking.” She set the greens on the table and transferred the sauce to a gravy boat. “I concluded that no one could possibly hold such an insane objection to perfectly good food.”

“Well, I do,” Herc muttered. “Not to worry, I’ll just eat the veg, then.”

“Fine.” Carolyn pulled the fish out of the oven, making sure to waft the delicious scent of the sole into Herc’s face as she moved it to the table. “All the more for me.”

They helped themselves in silence for a moment, but then she caught Herc’s eye. He was looking over at her with an air of suspicion mingled with amusement.

“Something tickling you,  _Hercules_?”

“Oh, no,” Herc said, all faux-innocence. “You certainly made… a  _lot_  of vegetables, considering you thought they were going to be a side dish.”

She glared at him. “I don’t know what you mean.” (No man  _ever_  rumbled her plans, usually.)

Herc grinned more broadly. “Of course not.” He took another spoonful of potatoes. “Of course not.”


	70. Candle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the eleventh fandot creativity night, to answer the prompt "candle".
> 
> Written in honour of madnina and iwanttotieyourshoe.

Arthur sort of couldn’t believe it when Skip agreed to go on a date with him. He hadn’t even meant to ask the captain out, not really; he’d been under GERTI’s wing, enjoying chatting to Skip and smiling at the way Skip was laughing at something Douglas had done, and the question had just sort of… slipped free of his throat. Skip had looked all surprised for ten seconds - Arthur had been on the point of apologising and running away to hide - but then the corners of Skip’s lips had curled up a little and to Arthur’s eternal shock he’d said “Yes, alright.”

Which was how they’d come to be at the multiplex, with Arthur half buried in an enormous tub of sweet popcorn; Martin had seriously considered the salty version, until Arthur looked horrified. “Why would you want salt when you could have sweet?” he’d asked, and Martin had laughed and nodded and they went halves on the sweet kind instead.

And now the film was over, the credits rolling, and Arthur had the distinct impression that he’d swallowed a load of the caterpillars he’d used to catch in primary school and they’d all hatched into butterflies while they’d been at the movie.

He stood up and followed Martin out of the cinema and they fell into step alongside one another as they had done so many times before – just not like this. Martin’s arm brushed his; Arthur had the sudden urge to do a little hop of incredulous joy.

They got to Martin’s van, and paused rather awkwardly. Arthur was usually good at not minding things being a little scary; he was generally fantastic at helping people forget what might be distracting them, but in this case he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

It was alright though; Martin was speaking. “I had… a nice time, Arthur.”

“Me too!” Arthur beamed, but nerves still fluttered and wiggled in his tummy. “The film was a good choice!” He hadn’t understood some of it, of course, but Skip had seemed keen, and the spy in it seemed to save the world and get the girl, so that was obviously a happy ending. Arthur was always a fan of happy endings.

“You liked it?” Martin had wrinkled his forehead and looked slightly concerned. “I wasn’t sure it would be… your thing.”

“If you enjoyed it, I’m happy. I wanted you to have fun, more than anything.” Arthur bounced a little on his heels, and couldn’t understand why Martin’s eyes suddenly looked all… soft. And then – Arthur nearly blurted something in surprise, but bit back the exclamation – Martin was leaning towards him, and had put a hand on Arthur’s waist, all warm and secure.

“Really?” Martin asked, but didn’t wait for Arthur to reply. Instead he closed the gap and Arthur just remembered to shut his eyes in time and felt Martin’s lips moving gently over his.

After a few seconds – during which Arthur struggled to remember how to breathe, such was the soaring sensation in his soul – Martin stepped back, his smile a bit more questioning now, though there was light dancing in his eyes.

“Is that OK?” he asked.

Arthur blinked. “Y-yes,” he stammered. Never in his dizziest daydreams had he dared to imagine that Skip would want to kiss him. “But, Skip – why… why me?”

Martin looked just as surprised as Arthur felt, then a strangely shy expression crossed his features. “Well…” he shuffled his feet a bit – “I’ve always thought… for a long time… no one can hold a candle to you, Arthur.”

“Well, I hope not.” Arthur was bewildered. “I’d get burnt.”

Martin laughed, a bright, pleased sound, and he bent forward and kissed Arthur on the cheek. “I mean that there’s no one quite like you, you clot.”

“Oh.” Arthur thrilled to the affection in Martin’s hushed whisper. “Oh.” He considered for a moment, and beamed. “I don’t think anyone can hold you over a candle either, Skip.”

Martin chuckled again. “I’m glad to hear it.”


	71. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a birthday present for hollyashes :)

“You are being most mysterious.” Douglas wasn’t sure whether to be peeved or amused at being marched through the streets of Malta’s capital by Martin.

 

The captain tried his best to look innocent, but the flush spreading above his collar gave him away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

Douglas raised an eyebrow, neatly sidestepping a group of German tourists as they spilled out of the cathedral. “You’ve been acting strangely ever since we took off from Fitton this morning.”

 

Martin stumbled over a loose cobble, catching at Douglas’ arm to right himself. Douglas was secretly pleased when he didn’t let go, instead linking arms so they could walk together. “They should really redo these pavements.” Martin waved his free hand. “Don’t you think? Lethal, some of them -”

 

Douglas was too experienced at plots and schemes not to recognise a diversionary tactic when he heard one. “Perhaps,” he said, batting away the change of subject. “Now, where are you taking me?”

 

“Nowhere!” Martin protested. “We’re just… strolling.”

 

“At 4 miles per hour? This is the most urgent stroll I’ve ever taken,” Douglas said drily, as Martin headed down another small side street. The tug on their joined arms meant he couldn’t help but follow. “You’ve obviously got somewhere in mind -”

 

“Have not!”

 

“Martin, you’ve rejected all six of the restaurants I proposed so far on this _amble_ , and you’re not usually a fussy eater -”

 

Abruptly Martin halted, turning to beam at Douglas. “This one looks nice!”

 

Douglas was utterly baffled, taking in the unexceptional frontage of the eating establishment to their right. “It looks the same as the first two I suggested!”

 

Martin’s grin broadened further. “Go on, go in. I… like the look of this one.”

 

Douglas couldn’t help but chuckle, and leaned to kiss Martin swiftly on the lips. “You are the least subtle person in the world, you know.”

 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Martin shifted from foot to foot, looking furtive.

 

“One thing I don’t understand, though…” Douglas clasped a warm hand to Martin’s waist.

 

“Oh?” Martin leant into the touch almost subconsciously.

 

“How on earth did you find out when my birthday was?” Douglas shook his head. “I’ve never told anyone at work, ever.”

 

Martin tried to appear shocked, but the falsely widened eyes easily gave him away. “Your birthday? You should have said!” Douglas just looked at him, amusement clearly showing, and after a moment, Martin sagged a bit and laughed. “Oh, fine. Have it your way. Arthur found your original application to the post of First Officer when he was tidying the filing cabinet last week. On which you filled out your birthdate.”

 

“Aha.” Douglas felt the satisfaction of a puzzle piece falling into place. He grimaced. “Does that mean Arthur’s in there?”

 

Martin chuckled. “I’m not saying anything… about whether our steward currently has his nose pressed excitably against the window, evidently wondering why I’m dawdling about bringing you inside.”

 

“Oh, Lord.”

 

“Come on.” Martin pecked Douglas on the cheek. “I think he’ll have a conniption if we don’t go in this instant.”

 

Douglas nodded. “Well, at least I managed to half-rumble your surprise. I’m far happier being the surpriser rather than the surprisee.”

 

Martin smirked - for reasons that Douglas couldn’t divine - but the captain pushed Douglas at the door. “Go  _in_ , for goodness’ sake.”

 

“Fine, I’m going, I’m going…” Douglas pushed the door open, his eyes adjusting to the restaurant’s dimmer light. The next thing he knew was a feeling as if two cannonballs had hit him around his midriff. He looked down, and - “ _Girls_?”

 

Emily and Verity had thrown themselves at him - the first time he’d seen them in a month. Douglas instinctively hugged them tightly in return, then looked up in amazement to see Carolyn, Arthur and Herc all grinning in the background. He gaped. “How - how? I mean, how?”

 

“Three excellent questions.” Martin’s voice behind him was both teasing and ecstatic. “Herc flew them out here specially on Cal Air this afternoon.”

 

“Happy birthday, Dad!” Emily hopped in happiness, and Verity simply beamed and led him to a beautifully decorated table, all balloons and streamers and what looked like a positively hazardous amount of glitter. Arthur’s mysterious bags from the hold on their trip out to the Med suddenly had an explanation.

 

“Happy birthday, Douglas.” Martin took the seat next to him and gently squeezed his hand. “You might be the very best at surprises….” He grinned as Douglas remained speechless. “But that just means that all of us have learnt from the master.”

 

“You win,” said Douglas, a little weakly - except that by the end of the wonderful evening he realised that no,  _he_  had.


	72. Pleas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated E, for Skipthur smut - written originally for madnina/skipthatsbrilliant.

“Arthur… please…” Martin’s hat was all skewiff, his cheeks red, as he squirmed under Arthur’s weight straddling his hips. He was desperately conscious of his bare chest and arched his back, hoping Arthur would take the hint and touch him. But Arthur seemed astonishingly implacable, even in the face of Martin’s desperation. Martin whined again. “Pleeeease?”

 

“I know, Skip.” Arthur smiled happily down at him. “But you know it’ll feel even better if you wait.”

 

“Oh God…” Martin was nearly incoherent. It felt as though Arthur had been teasing him all day, with gentle brushes of fingers at his neck when the steward brought his tea, with the hungry gaze he’d maintained on Martin throughout the flight briefing, with the brush of their arms as they’d checked into the hotel. “Please… I need…” He rocked his hips up against Arthur, striving for friction, something, anything.

 

Arthur leant forward, pinning Martin’s shoulders to the hotel bed as he stole a deep, searching kiss. Martin responded eagerly, trying to buck harder but his efforts totally frustrated by the way Arthur had him pinioned.

 

“Mmm.” Arthur drew away from their kiss and shuffled back a bit so that he had access to Martin’s flies. With a contented hum, he unzipped the captain and slipped a hand into his boxers.

 

“Yes, more, please, Arthur, more.” 

 

Martin groaned when Arthur took a few seconds before he started moving; he seemed happy to simply feel the hardness of Martin’s straining erection beneath his fingertips. As Martin moaned and sobbed another plea, though, Arthur relented and began at last to move his hand, sliding and slipping in steady increments, ratcheting Martin’s pleasure ever higher.

 

“How’s that?” Arthur’s face was serious as he concentrated, but his brown eyes were soft and deep as he gazed down at Martin panting beneath him.

 

“Oh, so good, d-don’t stop - so good -”

 

“Won’t stop.” Arthur sped his movements. “Thought - mmm - thought about this - all day -”

 

“Me too, God, Arthur - please -” Martin gasped as Arthur flicked two fingers over his slit, gathering the moisture there to help lubricate his actions and sending a spike of pleasure straight through Martin’s groin.

 

“You’re so beautiful.” Arthur let go of Martin’s shoulder and fumbled his own cock out of his pants, jerking at them both at the same time. “Can’t wait, sorry -”

 

“S’fine - Arthur -  _close_ …”

 

“Yes.” Arthur’s hands both moved so quickly they seemed to blur, and Martin threw his head back against the pillow, a truncated curse catching in his throat. “Come on - I want you to, come on… that’s it…”

 

“Ar-ah!” Martin wasn’t sure whether it was Arthur’s name he was saying or whether he was just crying out, but either way, ecstasy shuddered through him and his pleasure pulsed forth, coating Arthur’s hand, splashing up onto Arthur’s cock so that the steward gasped in his turn.

 

“Skip!” Arthur sobbed a cry of his own, and the feel and sight of Martin’s climax pushed him into his own, painting Martin’s stomach with copious stripes and splotches of his release.

 

At last, his quaking bliss finally ebbing, Arthur exhaled heavily and flopped forwards. He tenderly cuddled into Martin’s chest and curled his taller body so his head rested on Martin’s shoulder; Martin wrapped his arms around his lover’s back, holding him close.

 

Arthur shivered, and Martin pressed a kiss into his hair. “Cold?” he asked.

 

“Mm, no.” Arthur nosed his way up into Martin’s neck. “Just… that was gorgeous.  _You’re_  gorgeous.”

 

There was a time when Martin would have blushed and shied away from the compliment by muttering something deprecatory or to the contrary. But that was before Arthur; before he’d ever felt so very  _loved_ … 

 

So now, Martin could only smile, kiss Arthur again and agree, telling him: “You too, love. You too.”


	73. Sparkle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in honour of sircarolyn's 18th birthday - many happy returns, Lucy!

“So what did you do for your 18th birthday, then?” Douglas yawned as he handed over control to Herc post-takeoff.

 

Herc chuckled. “It certainly wasn’t fly to Cancún for the weekend with fourteen of my best friends, I can tell you.”

 

Douglas rolled his eyes. “Well, I’d rather guessed that.” He folded his hands behind his head as Arthur bustled in with their tea. “How are our just-of-age passengers back there, young Shappey?”

 

“Quite… excited.” Arthur looked thoughtful, then nodded. “Yes. Excited is definitely the word I’d use.”

 

“Fine,” Herc said. “As long as they remain ‘excited’ rather than ‘wasted’ then all shall be well.”

 

“Mum’s still got the key to the drinks cabinet, don’t worry.”

 

“Good.” Herc made a course correction, then tilted back in his chair. “What did you do for your 18th, then, Arthur?”

 

Arthur’s face lit up. “It was –“

 

“ _Brilliant_ ,” said Herc and Douglas in unison.

 

“Yes!” Arthur beamed. “Mum took me to Thorpe Park. I got to go on all the rollercoasters, and I was allowed candyfloss!”

 

“So just like your 30th, then?” Douglas raised an eyebrow.

 

“Yep!” Arthur bounced on his heels. “What did you do, Douglas?”

 

Douglas gave a lofty shrug. “I was too cool for birthdays, as I recall. Went to the pub with a few friends. Took great satisfaction in getting a round in using real ID rather than fake.” He made a face. “Except that then all my mates got chucked out – I was the oldest in the year, and the landlord was feeling strict.”

 

“Oh no!” Arthur’s face was sympathetic. “So you had to leave too?”

 

Douglas grinned. “What, and waste all four pints I’d just bought? That would have been an unconscionable shame.” His grin became more of a smirk. “No, I just found a table of some ladies still home from university, and made some…  _new_  friends.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, causing his first officer to snort.

 

“Oh. Oh, well that’s good!” Arthur turned to Herc. “What about you, Herc? Did you go to the pub too?”

 

Herc shook his head. “No. I’m a summer birthday – by the time mine rolled around, everyone else in my year was already 18, and the constant giant celebrations had begun to pall. I was actually away on holiday with my family – so we just had a big dinner. It’s only another birthday, after all.”

 

“But it’s becoming a grown-up -!”

 

“That doesn’t seem to be a fate you’ve suffered, Arthur,” Douglas interrupted, drily.

 

Just then the flight deck door opened, and Carolyn poked her head in. “What’s going on in here?” she snapped. “Some sort of mothers’ meeting? Arthur, the boys in row six want some drinks – go and look after them.”

 

“Oh, right.” Arthur slid past her. “Can I have the key, then?”

 

“ _Not_  alcohol!”

 

“OK!” Arthur disappeared and Carolyn made to withdraw, but Douglas stopped her.

 

“What did you do for your 18th, Carolyn? We’ve just been comparing notes.”

 

Carolyn sniffed. “None of your business.”

 

Herc turned round, looking intrigued. “Oh, come on. It’s hardly a state secret.”

 

“I don’t see why I should tell you.”

 

“Because we want to see if it’s more pathetic than Herc not being able to find any friends to celebrate his with,” Douglas said, snidely.

 

Herc looked utterly unperturbed. “Or more desperate than Douglas having to recruit new friends on the night because his own had all disappeared.”

 

Douglas glared. “Been barred, you mean.”

 

“Potato, potahto…”

 

“Do you two ever stop bickering?” Carolyn sounded her usual exasperated self.

 

“We take our lead in crew relations from our alpha-dog.” Douglas grinned. “Come on, confess. What did you do?”

 

“I… went dancing.” Carolyn looked as if she instantly regretted conveying this information.

 

Herc’s face lit up. “Dancing? You hate dancing!”

 

Douglas laughed. “You don’t have to make a face as if you’d just swallowed a wasp, Carolyn.”

 

“Well, it was awful! The music was loud, and the drinks were warm, and there were too many people…” Carolyn shuddered at the memory. “It was Ruth’s choice, anyway. My damn twin always got her way.”

 

“I can imagine.” Douglas rolled his eyes. “You haven’t had the dubious pleasure of meeting Ruth, I take it, Herc?”

 

“No.” Herc looked intrigued. “Is she really that bad?”

 

“Remind me to tell you about our trip to Helsinki sometime.”

 

“I will.” Herc returned his attention to Carolyn. “I keep telling you dancing’s fun. You should give it another chance.”

 

“Hercules Shipwright, it will be a cold day in Douz before I permit you to introduce me to a dancefloor.”

 

“Oh, come on…” Herc urged. “You know I was right about opera.”

 

Carolyn stared impassively at him. “And in so being, you used up your entire quota of  _occasions-when-Herc-is-right_  for a lifetime.” She sniffed. “Anyway. Things to do.” She exited without a backwards glance.

 

“Ah, well,” Douglas said, with a philosophical sigh. “We can only hope that our star passenger’s birthday exceeds the excitement of any of ours.”

 

“With the exception of Arthur, of course.”

 

“Naturally.” Douglas mused. “They seem a nice enough bunch back there, stinking rich though they all are.” He settled more comfortably into his chair in preparation for GERTI to head out over the Atlantic. “Hopefully they have Arthur-levels of joy ahead of them in Mexico.”

 

GERTI flew on, and if Carolyn allowed two bottles of champagne (well, cava) to escape from the drinks cabinet before their arrival, it was only to celebrate being near the end of a very long flight.


	74. Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt for the twelfth fandot creativity night: "Masks".

Carolyn’s mask was the one she wore whenever MJN was skating nearer than usual financial obliteration; the steely determination that never wavered, the condescension towards the imbeciles in her employ (no matter how often said imbeciles were actually the ones extracting her from the monetary calamity that they’d strayed into). It wouldn’t do to let them know how much she needed them, after all.

 

Martin’s mask was the one he wore most frequently during his early days at MJN; the mask of being the species of captain he’d always admired. The steely kind, the authoritative and knowledgeable kind; the type of leader whom others admired in a sort of respectfully fearful way. Underneath his facade, he was young and green, he knew; but with his mask on he was in charge, impenetrable, formidable. At least, he always thought he was; right up until the point when he needed his colleagues to help extricate him from his latest sticky situation, of course. But he tried not to let the mask slip, especially at the start; tried not to let them know just how much he needed them.

 

Arthur’s mask was perhaps the most perfect of all, and certainly the most brilliant – in his opinion. He wasn’t good at much (with the exception of crazy golf) but he  _was_  good at keeping up the appearance of being perfectly happy. He often genuinely was, of course, and then his mask wasn’t a mask, it was the real him; but even Arthurs had less-brilliant days, and then he’d take a deep breath, plaster on the grin that fooled everyone, and do the cabin service without a murmur. On those sorts of days, he’d spend more time in the flight deck than usual, because Martin and Douglas and his mum were the best people at transforming the mask into reality again. He’d never tell them, of course, they might laugh... and even if it wasn’t mean laughter, he didn’t think that he wanted to hear so much as a chuckle at just how much he needed them.

 

Douglas’ mask wasn’t as perfect as Arthur’s; he’d have sniffed if he’d known, would’ve been unhappy at the thought that Arthur had a skill mastered better than he. But Douglas’ mask was pretty darn convincing; convincing enough that Martin never tumbled to the fact that Douglas’ third marriage in a row was falling apart, not until Douglas crumbled and admitted it, at least. Douglas needed his mask, needed to maintain his carefully painted illusion of superiority and supreme competence – the last vestiges of who he was, who he wanted to be - something to cling to when it felt like everything else was spinning away. And he relied so very much upon them, his coworkers – not that he’d ever tell them so, because in his experience, the people you clung to were the ones who left. Douglas would never let them know, never – just how much he needed them.

 

They all knew, though, all of them. About each other, about their respective masks.

 

Some things don’t need saying out loud.


	75. Fangs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from the twelfth fandot creativity night - a drabble on the subject of "Fangs".

“Ow!” Douglas lurched backwards, clapping a hand to his mouth. “You didn’t have to come at me with your  _fangs_!”

Martin looked humiliated. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” he cried, looking desperately pleading. “I didn’t mean to nip you – it’s just –“ he blushed – “a while since I’ve kissed anyone.” He hung his head. “I’m out of practice.”

Douglas felt mollified, but before he could speak, Martin stood. “I’ll… go, shall I?”

“No. Stay.” Douglas grabbed his hand. “Let me kiss you again.”

“Really?” Martin looked utterly taken aback.

“Really.” Douglas’ lips were gentle, and this time, Martin’s were, too.


	76. Cauldron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the twelfth fandot creativity night, for the prompt "Cauldron".

“Arthur?”

 

“Yes, Skip?” Arthur poked his head into the hall, where Martin was looking confusedly at the stack of items that he was helping Arthur to move.

 

“Why do you have things packed inside – inside a –“ Martin poked the black pot with his foot. “…Giant cauldron?” he finished, turning a confused face to the steward.

 

Arthur beamed. “I thought it would be a good thing to move my computer games in. It’s got a handle to carry and everything.” He made as if to retreat to his bedroom once more, whence the sounds of hasty packing had been emanating for the past half hour.

 

Martin raised a hand to stop him. “You misunderstand me.”

 

“I do?” Arthur blinked innocently.

 

“Why do you own a cauldron in the first place?”

 

“Mum was a witch.”

 

“Carolyn?” Martin’s mind felt as if it had stuttered. Not for the first time in conversation with Arthur, he wondered if he’d entered a strange parallel universe. “A  _witch_?”

 

“Yeah!” Arthur smiled delightedly. “For my primary school summer play! The parents got to act too, and Mum was a witch!” He frowned. “What did you think I meant?”

 

“Oh, that, only that,” Martin blustered, trying to cover his error. The idea of Carolyn swooping around on a broomstick was all too plausible, he thought to himself. He picked up the pot and headed for the van. “Is there much more?”

 

“Nearly there, Skip!”

 

“OK.” Martin opened the door to the porch, but then a thought occurred, and he set the heavy metal back down again. “Arthur?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“Your mum is going to have this back, isn’t she? Once you’ve moved?”

 

Arthur shook his head. “Oh, no. She doesn’t want it anymore.”

 

“But where are we going to put it?”

 

“We’ll find a spot!” Arthur saw Martin’s worried expression, and wandered over to him, cupping his cheeks between warm hands. “Come on. You said our new flat needed a talking point, after all.”

 

“I did, didn’t I?” Martin made a mental note to watch what he said around Arthur, then discarded it as pointless. He smiled.

 

“You did.” Arthur leant to kiss Martin, soft lips to slightly chapped ones. “This will make people talk!”

 

“It certainly will.” Martin hefted the cauldron into his hand, then realised. “ _Oh_.”

 

“What is it?” Arthur had retreated to his room again.

 

“Nothing,” Martin called, absently. “I was just thinking….”

 

“What?”

 

“We’ve invited Douglas over next Saturday, haven’t we?”

 

“Yes. So?”

 

Martin took a deep breath. “Oh… never mind.” He wandered out to the already very full van, and stowed the cauldron safely. At least he had a week to mentally prepare himself for the stream of jokes that Douglas would be sure to spew forth when he saw Martin’s new home’s… talking point.

 

Arthur was worth it.


	77. Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the twelfth fandot creativity night, to answer the prompt "trick or treat".
> 
> This chapter is rated E for explicit content.

“Douglas, please….” Martin’s voice was edging close to a whine. “Come on.”

 

“Just a minute…” Douglas teasingly turned another page of his newspaper. “This is a very interesting article I’m reading.”

 

“Dougl-aaaaas.” Martin walked to the sofa and physically tugged at Douglas’ arm. “Come upstairs.”

 

Douglas laughed and gave in. “Well, you have been being patient all day.” He set the paper aside and pulled Martin into a kiss.

 

Martin responded a little breathlessly, then broke away and led Douglas by the hand to their room. “Bed,” he ordered, and set to stripping to his underwear with keenness that bordered on desperation.

 

Douglas laughed and did the same, then pretended to have an idea occur to him. “Just a moment,” he said, and disappeared back down the stairs again, to the sound of Martin’s grumpy moan. “Back in a mo!” he called, and was as good as his word – returning to find Martin sprawled out on the duvet, looking cranky.

 

The captain sat up at the sight of the bowl Douglas was carrying. “What’s that?” he asked, suspiciously.

 

Douglas wagged a finger. “Never you mind,” he said, playfully. “Now, close your eyes.”

 

Martin hesitated, but then did as Douglas requested. Douglas smirked and popped something from the bowl into his mouth before Martin could notice. He kissed his way tenderly down Martin’s belly, making certain to keep his lips closed, eliciting happy murmurs of pleasure from the captain.

 

Martin’s wail when Douglas pushed his pants aside and took his cock in his mouth was one of shock rather than pleasure, though. Martin startled backwards, and Douglas let Martin’s cock slip free with an obscene  _pop_.

 

“Your mouth!” Martin rasped, his hand fisted tight in Douglas’ hair. “It’s  _cold_!”

 

Douglas smirked, and stuck out his tongue. The last sliver of ice from the cube he’d been sucking glistened in the light. He swallowed it with a chuckle, and stroked at Martin’s hardness faux-apologetically, making him shiver. “Are you saying…” he purred, “that my hand… all warm round you… after that…. doesn’t feel nice?”

 

Martin moaned and threw his head back. “No,” he said, and petted Douglas’ hair. “Was just… a mean trick to play, that’s all.”

 

“I’m so sorry.” Douglas plucked another ice cube from the bowl and allowed it to melt between his fingers, dropping frigid drips onto Martin’s stomach. Martin shuddered, and goosebumps raised on his arms – perfect for Douglas to soothe away with the warmth of his free hand. He switched his newly cooled palm to Martin’s cock, stroking more rapidly.

 

Martin groaned. “Oh.  _Oh,_  that’s –“

 

“Good?” Douglas asked, and Martin nodded helplessly. “Excellent.”

 

He repeated the process twice more, switching hot and cold and keeping Martin delightfully off balance until Martin was nearly incoherent with arousal, bucking and twisting under his touch.

 

“Ready for your treat?” Douglas asked, his own excitement at fever pitch just at the sight and sound of Martin.

 

“Please – yes, Douglas, please, please –“

 

Douglas grinned, and sucked Martin to completion, revelling in the gasps and moans that his skill elicited.

 

When at last Martin had quaked and groaned his way into loose-limbed silence, it took him a minute, but then he pounced, tipping Douglas backwards into the pillows with a growl.

 

“You rascal,” he said, and Douglas grinned unrepentantly. “Just wait to see what I do to you.”

 

“Don’t make me wait,” Douglas said, but it came out as an impatient sigh.

 

Martin smiled sharkily. “Why shouldn’t I?” He adopted an innocent expression. “In fact, I heard that there was a very interesting article in the paper –“

 

He broke off with a laugh as Douglas jumped him, the FO’s desperation and longing never more apparent.


	78. Supernatural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the twelfth fandot creativity night - for the prompt "supernatural".

“If humans were supposed to fly, we’d have wings.” The voice of the American millionaire’s wife was high-pitched and nasal as she clung onto her husband’s meaty arm.

 

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, honey.” He adopted a wheedling tone. “Don’t you want to see the UK?”

 

“I’m happy staying in New York!”

 

Martin had opened his mouth ready to interject, but Douglas nudged his arm. “Don’t bother,” he said in an undertone, still clearly eavesdropping.

 

“But she’s just  _wrong_!” Martin hissed back.

 

“I  _know_  she is.” Douglas rolled his eyes. “But if she talks him out of the flight, MJN still gets paid – and we’ll have the whole trip back with no passengers to annoy us.” He grinned. “You know that’ll please Carolyn. And it’s not as if your interruption would be listened to, anyway.”

 

“Well… I suppose so.” Martin settled back, and waited to see the end of the argument. “I still think she’s wrong.”

 

“Of course you do.” Douglas shrugged and drifted over to the doorway, where he engrossed himself in the front cover of a New York Times that flapped in a cool breeze as he approached.

 

At length, the man persuaded his complaining wife to board GERTI. She followed him up the aircraft steps, stiletto heels clicking across the tarmac of the apron. Douglas and Martin went behind her, and she shivered as she reached the aircraft entrance, staring suspiciously inside as a chill breath of air brushed her neck. “I still say it’s not natural.”

 

“Oh come  _on_ , Lucy,” her husband admonished. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”

 

“Quite right,” Martin muttered, and he and Douglas headed for the flight deck. Martin poked his head through the door. Nigel and Herc were already in there, making their final checks, by the looks of things. Martin sniffed.

 

“What is it?” Douglas enquired, from behind him.

 

“Nigel’s cap’s squiffy –  _again_ ,” Martin tutted as he retreated a step.

 

Douglas laughed, but before he could say anything, Arthur poked his head out of the galley – just as Carolyn huffed her way on board. “Did you hear that?” the steward asked.

 

“Hear what?” Carolyn was immersed in the papers she was holding.

 

“I thought I heard someone laugh.”

 

“Did you think it might be the pilots?” Carolyn stowed the papers, then turned to close the door.

 

Arthur’s face cleared. “Oh yeah!” He frowned, though. “They don’t usually laugh.”

 

Douglas smirked. “They do,” he commented to Martin. “Just not the pilots Carolyn and Arthur know about.”

 

Martin chuckled, and he and Douglas drifted down the cabin, taking their usual seats in the back row. Martin ran a transparent hand over his forehead, grinning. “Do you think she’ll last the flight?” he asked. The businessman’s wife was fretfully clutching at her armrests.

 

Douglas leant forward, his head disappearing through the cushion of the seat in front before re-emerging as he tipped back again. He grinned. “I bet she sticks it for…. Oooh, ten minutes.”

 

“I give it an hour.” Martin nodded. “There’s turbulence over the Eastern seaboard, I looked.”

 

Douglas nodded. “She wasn’t wrong, though.”

 

“What about?” Martin enquired.

 

“This flight. It’s definitely not… natural.”

 

Martin laughed, an echoey chuckle that floated down the plane and made the American man turn his head curiously – to see nothing at all.

 

“More supernatural, would you say?” Martin jested.

 

Douglas snickered. “Definitely that.”

 

Martin’s cheerful grin spread across his see-through face, before he returned his attention to the matter at hand. “So,” he said. “What do you want to bet on our passenger’s staying power, then?”

 

Douglas mused. “Whoever’s closer to the correct time gets to scare Karl and Phil next at the airfield?”

 

Martin nodded, delightedly. “You’re on.”

 

GERTI soared into the air, and the manifest’s declared number of ‘souls on board’ remained just as incorrect as it always was, and always would be.


	79. Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from the special NaNoWriMo creativity night - "hurricane".

“I’m bo-ored.” Arthur stared grumpily out of the window at the pouring rain.

 

“Guess which drops will get to the bottom of the glass first.” Martin glanced up, before returning to reading the Lockheed McDonnell manual for GERTI.

 

Douglas looked up too, a sharky expression crinkling his features. “ _Bet_ which drops will get –“

 

“No!” Carolyn’s voice echoed out of the open door of her office, and Douglas subsided with a shrug. She emerged, holding Snoopadoop’s lead. “Take her out, if you need something to do.”

 

Martin sniffed. “I still don’t think having  _it_  in the office is professional,” he muttered, but quailed under Carolyn’s icy glare.

 

“I don’t care what you think.” Carolyn marched the labradoodle over to Arthur. “She needs to go to the vet later for her jabs, so she can sit quietly in my office out of the way till then.” Snoopadoop yipped happily as Arthur bent to pet her curly fur. “My airdot, my rules.” She swept back into her office as Martin frowned his displeasure.

 

Arthur had taken the lead, but looked outside again. The rain was hammering so hard on the tin roof of their hut that he could barely hear himself think, and the view outside wobbled and blurred as a cascade of water flowed down the windowpane. “It’s awfully… soggy outside.”

 

“So take a brolly.” Douglas bent to pick his up. “Here. Catch.”

 

Arthur fumbled and dropped the umbrella, but Snoopadoop retrieved it delicately and handed it to him. “Good girl.” He sighed and shrugged on his cagoule. “Thanks, Douglas.”

 

“Mm.” Douglas had gone back to his crossword. He was always crotchety on standby days. They all were.

 

Arthur sighed as he stepped into the pouring rain. It was windy, too, the gusts buffeting his coat and making the waterproof fabric snap around him. Snoopadoop, though, just seemed delighted to be in the fresh air, leaping and gambolling around his legs and almost tripping him up with the lead. “Come on, girl,” he begged, shivering as the wind’s fingers slipped in through his coat’s poppers to chill him. “Make, make.”

 

Snoopadoop ignored him. With a happy bark, she set to chasing her own tail – running in circles that it made Arthur quite dizzy to watch. “Stop it!” he pleaded, but she didn’t listen, just barked again and kept whirling. “Snoopadoop…”

 

At last Arthur couldn’t help but laugh. She looked so ludicrous, wet fur plastered into an odd quiff, tail wagging madly so she had no hope of catching it, tongue lolling as if she was inviting him to join in… He turned a circle on the spot, arms out, feeling the strengthening wind catching his coat as if he were a kite, and Snoopadoop yapped with excitement. “I can see why you like being a little whirlwind,” he laughed, and spun faster. “Whee!”

 

“ _Arthur_!” Carolyn’s voice from the portacabin doorway halted his gyrations. “You are not a human hurricane!” She sounded at her most irascible. “Come inside, the pair of you.”

 

Both Arthur and Snoopadoop put their tails – real and figurative – between their legs and slunk indoors again. Arthur was never spiteful, but if he made sure that Snoopadoop shook her damp fur all over Carolyn… well, she’d dry. They all would.


	80. Butt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from the special NaNoWriMo creativity night - "butt".
> 
> Don't look too closely at my lack of research into aeroplane plumbing - 15 minutes wasn't enough time to work in real mechanics/fluid dynamics!

“Ugh, ugh, ugh.”

 

“Having fun, Martin?” Douglas peered around the doorway into GERTI’s tiny loo, a too-innocent expression on his face.

 

“You know the answer to that,” Martin grumbled. He shook a sweaty curl out of his eye, and waved the plunger in Douglas’ direction, causing the FO to take a hasty step back out of range.“Why is this  _my_  job?”

 

“Because you lost the word game, didn’t you?” Douglas smiled sweetly.

 

“But I’m the captain!” Martin bent angrily back to the sink, trying to find a seal with the plunger over the plughole.

 

“You know the cabin crew is otherwise occupied.”

 

“It cannot possibly take two of them to supervise the clear-up of one coffee spill.”

 

“If you’d ever seen Arthur’s levels of competence with a mop, you’d disagree.”

 

“Hmph.” The sink gave an ominous gurgle as Martin finally created a vacuum. “I’m not a plumber.”

 

“You have more experience with manual labour than the rest of us.” Douglas smirked even as Martin turned to snarl at him. “Oh, come now – don’t let this ruin your day.”

 

“My day was ruined when we had to make an emergency landing just because a doddery old woman decided the no smoking announcement didn’t apply to her.” 

 

Douglas opened his mouth to reply, but just as he did so the sink gurgled even more loudly, and a voice called from the flight deck: “Skip – have you tried reversing the intake valve? There’s a switch just here –“

 

Douglas wheeled around, crying “Arthur – no!” – but before he could stop the steward, there was the clunk of a switch being engaged and with a glooping moan the plunger, Martin, and a considerable proportion of GERTI’s onboard water tank fountained out of the toilet cubicle and into the cabin.

 

Martin wailed, though Douglas was too focused on skittering away from the tsunami to register it clearly. “I’m  _soaked_ , Douglas – _ARTHUR_!”

 

“Sorry…” Arthur peered into the corridor from the flight deck, looking sheepish. “I didn’t know that would make the tank flow backwards.” He bit his lip. “Gosh, you’re a bit wet, aren’t you?” 

 

Martin growled furiously. “I’ve thought that for years,” Douglas commented, shaking water off his expensive shoes. Something caught his eye, though, and he bent forwards, delicately using a tissue to pick up a mangled orange-white wodge of gunk off the floor. “Aha.”

 

Martin wiped water out of his eyes, still muttering crossly to himself. “What is it?” He rounded on Douglas, spraying droplets of dirty water as he turned.

 

“I’ve solved the plumbing problem.”

 

“ _You’ve_  solved -?!”

 

Martin’s furious splutter was easy to interrupt. “I found the cause of the blockage.” Douglas held out the mushed paper, flecks of brown dropping soggily to the ground. “Butts.”

 

“But what?”

 

“Not  _but_. Butts.” Douglas’ lip curled. “Mrs Smythe’s happy souvenir gift to us. About twenty fag ends, all down the sink.”

 

“ _That. Woman_.” Martin was only working himself into a deeper rage, and Douglas decided the time had come to be placatory rather than teasing.

 

“Arthur – get a second mop, before your Mum comes out of the galley. Martin – there’s a towel in my flight bag. Help yourself.”

 

“Really?” Martin looked astonished.

 

Douglas shrugged. “I’m not a complete bastard.”

 

“Debatable.” Martin gave a jerky-might’ve-been-grateful twitch of his chin, and disappeared into the flight deck. His exit was almost dignified; but, Douglas reflected, poise was never fully attainable with squelching feet.

 

He managed to hide his grin. Just about.


	81. Ruthlessness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For sircarolyn.

“...Get ready to meet... your sister, Ruth!”

 

Carolyn’s heart stumbles, and she has to flinch to keep from clutching her chest as she takes in the sight in the cabin. “Oh,” she manages.

 

 _She’s five again, or rather she isn’t; she can still feel the height of her adult self, can now look straight into her older sister’s brown eyes (mud-brown, she thinks, not the lovely caramel of Arthur’s); eyes that she used to stare up at from the floor, where Ruth had once more shoved her, out of sight of their parents. She’d always cried, then, until she realised that just spurred Ruth on to greater cruelties - stealing her lunch money, pouring glue into her schoolbag, laughing at her in front of her friends._  

 

She takes a step forward, grips a seat-back, but no words emerge - she can feel the pregnant expectation of her crew behind her, yet cannot speak. 

 

_She is twenty and marrying Ian, so excited, and Ruth arrives, wearing - not wearing the lovely soft blue dress that Carolyn had bought her to be a bridesmaid, but something revealing and just off-white - just off-white enough that Ruth can blink in wide-eyed innocence and claim she wasn’t trying to upstage her younger sister, wasn’t trying to make sure that all eyes, even Ian’s, drifted first to her décolletage or curvy rear where the dress clings suggestively._

 

“Hooray!” Arthur cries, following other words that Carolyn hasn’t absorbed - but the exclamation trails off, the encouragement failing to bridge the distance between her and her kindly, idiotic, loveable son, falling into the chasm that’s abruptly opened up in the familiar stale warmth of GERTI’s cabin. 

 

_She’s thirty-four, being handed Arthur, her baby, for just the second time, reaching eagerly for him; and Ruth sweeps in from the corridor outside and takes him from the nurse’s arms instead, scrutinising Carolyn’s perfect miracle of a child with a clearly critical eye. “He’s much redder than Adam was,” Ruth comments, wrinkling her beak of a nose. “And he’s got Dad’s mouth, dear me.” Carolyn almost snatches Arthur back off Ruth, gentling him as he begins to scream (furious noises that Carolyn wishes desperately to echo) and Ruth’s eyes narrow._

 

 _“_ _Poor you,” she says, turning to leave, condescension redolent in her tone. “Still, we can’t all be attractive... Perhaps he’ll be_ clever _instead.” The sneer is as stinging as a slap to Carolyn’s fresh Caesarean wound._

 

“Aren’t you going to say anything to her, Granny?” The teenage boy is speaking, now; Carolyn is still staring into Ruth’s eyes, their gaze not breaking. 

 

_She is forty-eight, and their parents are dead. They’re at the crematorium, and Ruth’s histrionic, dramatic sobbing has attracted a cloud of fellow mourners around her, passing tissues and murmuring reassurance. Carolyn is alone, because Gordon is too busy, and Arthur has followed her instructions to take the money to the undertakers; her heart is broken, but she’ll never let them see. Ruth is still weeping ostentatiously as she finally acknowledges her younger sister’s presence; waltzing over without even a greeting. She claims the sweet shop, loudly so everyone can hear, and Carolyn is too numb even to tell her sister that it doesn’t matter, none of it, because Mummy is in the coffin that’s just slid discreetly away, and now Carolyn really has no home, not here, not with Gordon..._

 

_But Arthur comes back, and silently leads her away as Ruth marches off, tears suspiciously dry now there’s no one to sympathise in the vicinity. Carolyn takes Arthur’s hand, and it’s warm._

 

Arthur. Arthur is her home.

 

Ruth is speaking again, in the present, but none of it matters. The boy - man - behind her... he matters.

 

She’ll let him down as gently as she knows how. Even if the pent-up rage she’s stoked and suppressed for years is now bubbling, lava-hot, in her throat.

 

“Arthur, during your no doubt meticulous planning of this occasion, did it occur to you that if two sisters haven’t spoken for fifteen years, there might be a reason for it?” 


	82. Amour

When Martin finally said it, it was so quietly that Douglas nearly had to ask him to repeat it.

 

“You do?” Douglas rolled over, nearly crushing Martin by mistake. “Really?” He thumbed the corner of Martin’s temple, gently.

 

Martin’s blush was perceptible even in the semi-darkness. “I do,” he confirmed, and tugged Douglas closer, pushing an ankle between Douglas’ feet.

 

Douglas wanted to scream with happiness. His usual composure won out, however. “Good,” he whispered back.

 

“Good?” Martin hadn’t relaxed, despite Douglas’ caresses.

 

“Yes.” Douglas kissed his nose. “Because I love you too.”

 

“Oh.” Martin smiled, closing his eyes. “Excellent.”


End file.
